My Son(s)
by warmwinternights
Summary: Francis adopted Matthew. Arthur adopted Alfred. But the agency forget to mention one tiny detail - the two bundles of joy are twin brothers. So what happens when the two new fathers meet each other - and hate each other? [story inspired by childofthestreets' post on tumblr]. Human AU, FACE family, FrUk. Fair warning - it's rated T for a reason, and may go up to M later.
1. The Bird, The Bloom, and a Tomato

Well. Today was the day.

Golden locks had been tugged back with a royal purple ribbon that complemented his cerulean eyes. Elegant bangs framed his face, in an attempt to look effortlessly handsome. (Which had actually taken him twenty minutes to arrange.) A simple patterned tie sat securely around his neck. His sweater had been artfully layered, a broken-in dress shirt that tapered in all the right places lying underneath. The sleeves were rolled up and showing off his graceful forearms, and the untucked shirt hung over his Kenneth Cole trousers. Black socks dove into brown second-hand Ferragamos, laced just so the strings fell even across the shoe. He glanced up at the post-modern wall clock.

Two hours before he had to leave—and that was if he wanted to be early.

Francis let out a wistful breath. He settled himself onto the sofa, trying with difficulty not to rumple any part of his getup. Once he had successfully managed to sit down without doing too much damage, his eyes skirted the room, looking for something—anything, really—to volunteer as a distraction. Instinctively, his hand reached out for his smartphone on the table, but he already knew he wouldn't find anything remotely attention-grabbing when he was this excited.

He opened up Instagram anyway, switching between fashion inspo accounts and mutuals. The iconic orange notification faded into view: 112 likes and 17 comments on his last photo. Not bad for food porn of a bottle of Burgundy and artistically arranged blocks of cheese. Francis rested his chin on his left hand, the beginnings of a beard scratching against his palm. He made his way through the individual feeds of Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus. (Just kidding. No one uses Google Plus.) By the time he was finished with that, he still had a good hour-and-a-half until 12:45.

So, like any other human being, he went through them all over again. (Y'know, in case he missed something while he was looking at everything else.)

And then it was 11:33. If only the rest of the world could procrastinate as ineffectively as Francis. He could eat, but he was on a diet again and his breakfast omelette from that morning had him pretty filled up, anyway.

Without realizing, his legs had started another round of perusing the house. He paced back and forth, lost in thought, through the open kitchen to a quaint adjoining breakfast nook, back through the kitchen and into the dining area. The living room followed, all of it one big space, his wandering gaze failing to notice the impeccable décor he so prided himself on. Into the entry hall, where he opened and closed the doors of the closet and the powder room in a bizarre rhythm, through the living area again, and now pacing through the hall. He passed the bath, the bedroom, the _guest _bedroom, and the study, and then he stopped and looked up to realize where his subconscious had taken him.

A little smile tugged at his lips as he entered the room, the morning sun casting golden beams of light upon the walls, falling over the furniture, revealing every hue and soothing pastel in all its glory. The lightweight, sunflower-yellow fabric of the curtains let just enough sunshine through, a pattern of scattered teddy bears and sailboats and maple leaves making miniscule shadows on the plush, cream carpet. He walked slowly over to the toy chest and ran his fingers along the half-domed lid. On the top he and his friends had each painted their symbol, leftovers from a pact made in middle school they never cared to break. A white bird, a smiling tomato, and a rose sans-stem lay side-by-side, in a field of rolling hills and blue sky. The same three appeared on the walls of the room, on the frame of the bed—even hiding in the closet. Red striped trim adorned the chest, and marched around the edge of the sidetable. Antonio had found the most adorable bedset from back when Lovino had been a toddler, and brought it over, all the while enthusing about the possibilities for playdates and trips to the park and vacations on the beach. Even Gil dug up a few toys from Ludwig's childhood: a wooden dachshund with wheels in the feet and a worn, fraying collar; a hockey stick he'd repainted in a fire engine red; and even a petite play kitchenette, among others. After they had finished painting all the intricate little scenes on the walls, hiding details and puzzles in the unlikeliest of places and staining a good number of old shirts, Gil and Antonio helped him put the whole room together until everything was perfect. (It took an entire week of rearranging everything except for the dresser, and countless switching out of the play kitchen and toy chest, before Francis finally gave in that it would do.)

Those two meant the world to him. He couldn't have asked for better friends. It was a wonder they'd made it this far, through all the trials and tribulations of growing up. (As if they were already done growing up.) Honestly, considering how often he came running back to them after trading out their friendship for the company of his latest infatuation, he was surprised they even talked to him at all.

With a slight groan he arose from the ground, glancing down at his watch. What time was it? Time to stop reminiscing. Just kidding, it was 12:02.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

He picked up his phone again. Maybe he could call Antonio…

The other line rang once. Twice. The phone rang five times before a beep emitted and Antonio's voice began to play.

"Lo siento_, I am not available to talk right n—_"

Francis sighed and hung up. Scrolling through his contacts, he selected Gil's home number instead. As long as he wasn't out drinking beer, he probably wasn't busy.

_Brring. Brring._

"_Beilschmidt. _How can I help you_?_"

"_Bonjour, _Ludwig. _C'est Francis_. Could you give me Gil?"

"Oh. Em, _ja, ein moment_." He could hear Ludwig yelling for Gil, then a rustle as he brought his mouth back to the microphone. "Sorry, I guess you know already that I took away his phone for a week…"

"Ha, _oui, _I was made very aware of that," Francis replied, grinning.

"_Ja_…the police—" There was a scuffle and a loud, harsh yell.

"Franceypants! What's up?" Gil said, almost blowing out Francis' eardrums.

"Hey Gil. Just killing time until my appointment to pick up Matthieu," he said, holding the phone about an arm's length away and furiously lowering the volume. When he was at a significantly lesser risk of hearing loss, he brought the phone back to his ear.

"_Ah ja_, today's the day you become a papa! Congratulations," he said.

"I'm about to burst, it's so exciting! The room looks absolutely perfect, and I've childproofed the house and I have so many ideas for meals, and Antonio and I were discussing if maybe Lovino would take up babysitting, and Anri* has a toddler now, so we had been talking about playdates—_c'est tre bien!_ He's the sweetest little child I've ever met!"

"Playdates, huh? I'll bring along Ludwig, he'll enjoy the company—" There was a thump and a cackling. From what he could tell, a minute-long chase ensued, and by the time it was over, Gil was out of breath and laughing with the grace of a drunken seal.** "Oh man, can West put up a fight," he said, alternating between cackling and heavy wheezing. Francis could practically hear him grinning over the phone. He almost did, too. Gil was infectious.

"But you will come visit us, _non_?"

His tone became more serious, if ever so slightly. "_Naturlich_, Franny. Of course I want to see the kid whose bedroom we painted together. You haven't shut up about him since you got the idea in your head. 10 months! I'm surprised you haven't talked my awesome ears off."

"You know, you might as well bring Ludwig. I'm sure he'd want to see him too."

"Sure, why the heck not? HEY WEST!" Pause. "YOU WANNA SEE FRANNY'S NEW KID?" Another, longer pause. "He said _ja_!"

"Fantastic. He always seemed like the type to be good with kids."

"How much you wanna bet him an' Feli will have one of their own this time next year? They've been spending an awful lot of time in his room discussing 'battle pla—HEY! OW! DON'T BEAT UP YOUR OLDER BROTHER! STOP THAT! I'M TOO AWESOME FOR THIS!"

He really couldn't take anything seriously, could he?

Eventually Gil got back on the line, but not before throwing a couple curses Ludwig's way. "Seriously though, Franny. You'll be an awesome papa. You two are gonna have a great time together. _Er will sich wie ein schnitzel freuen._"*** High praise, coming from him.

"Thank you, Gil. You have no idea how much better that makes me feel." Francis smiled.

"Is not a problem. I'm looking forward to meeting the little bugger!" Someone was yelling to him from another room. "Hey, man, I've gotta go, Roder-dick's got his panties in a bunch 'cause someone might've filled his grand piano with feathers." Gil stifled a chuckle.

"Where on earth did you pick up the phrase 'panties in a bunch'?"

"I was binge-watching one of those British detective shows the other day so I could learn how to solve crimes. Was better than I expected," Gil replied. Another yell, this time accompanied by loud stomping. "Right—see you soon!"

"_Salut, mon ami_," Francis said, but he was cut short by the dial tone. He brought the phone down, and, though the phone call had only lasted 5 minutes, he found himself to be almost calmer. Francis wandered back into the kitchen, finding solace in the trivial rearrangement of a few city landscapes until he had no choice but to consult Pinterest on the matter. By the time he'd gathered enough inspiration for a final decision, he was pleasantly surprised to realize that 12:45 had come and gone. He dashed out the door without even checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. (Hard to believe anything could be more important to him than his own reflection, huh?) Francis was still tugging on his coat when he threw open the entrance to the apartment building, the doorman looking on with bewilderment. He may or may not have yelled at him; whatever it was, Francis was too far away at that point to hear. A fast walk rushed him by the plain, dingy stone buildings, their facades matching the late February skies. The sky was gray and brooding, but then again, it always looked like that. After living here for a year, you got used to keeping an umbrella on hand.

How he longed for the red brick buildings and bright awnings. Pops of color showing up no matter where you looked. Colorful signs and clothes and store displays drowning out the dreary puffs of cold spilling from pedestrians' mouths. The city of Paris was and always would be a rainbow. But when spring came around: now _that _was when Paris truly was at its best. Francis couldn't _wait _until roses and violets would spill out of the window boxes. _Although I won't live to see them if I don't watch where I'm going, _he thought to himself as he nearly tumbled down the concrete steps to the Underground. He was too impatient swiping his card, and it took 5 tries and a few annoyed glances from impatient strangers before the gates let him through. The train had just pulled in, and lucky Francis snatched a seat next to a simply strapping young lad. Sadly, so did the lad's girlfriend. Francis cursed God for his misfortune and people-watched until the couple got up, freeing up space for a new passenger to take a seat next to him. He looked single, and Francis would have taken his chances, but the man's eyebrows were much too thick. Ew.

Thankfully, his stop was up next, and he made a quick escape from Eyebrows onto All Saints'. Yummy smells wafted from a nearby café, and an image of him and Matthieu eating croissants together came to mind. Did Matthieu like hot cocoa? What sort of child didn't? Oh, being a papa was going to be so _fantastic_!

He nearly walked past the adoption center in his excitement. Once he'd doubled back, he almost walked into the glass doors. So much for being graceful. A pretty young lady was about to walk through, too. Francis tugged open the door and bowed with a flourish, leaving her with roses for cheeks and a barely audible "thank you" muttered in his direction. Being courteous (or maybe trying to attract attention to his freshly-polished shoes), he wiped his feet on the black mat in the waiting room and immediately struck up a conversation with a couple sitting nearby. Elise and Natalya, **** they said were their names, and they were waiting to visit their soon-to-be daughter. Francis took note of the matching wedding bands on their fingers and smiled, ever the sucker for romance. By the time the receptionist called his name, they had made plans to meet sometime soon for some coffee and a playdate.

"You are Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?" the receptionist asked. His name sounded queer coming off her English tongue.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes drifting where they shouldn't.

"**Excuse me.** May I see your ID?" she snarled. Francis realized what he was doing a second too late and, feeling awful, handed over his license immediately. She examined it, matching up the data on file, then handed it back. "Alright. Please wait in Room 2, down the south hall. Matthew is still getting together his belongings, so we'll bring him out in a few minutes."

"Thank you very much, _mademoiselle_," he said, before heading towards the hall. It was all he could do not to sprint.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap._ Staccato beats of shoes, bouncing off the framed art of countless children come and gone. Hallway acoustics sending sharp waves of sound through one ear and out the other. _Tap-tap-tap-tap._

_Kishhhhhhhh. _The door made a sound like pneumatic pumps when you opened it. The sort of door that's really heavy, and takes two minutes and a bodybuilder to tug open. Maybe it was heavy so the children couldn't run out? He could understand the temptation; the room wasn't the sort he would really want to spend any longer in than he had to. Sparsely decorated, with a shiny, plastic-looking living room set pushed against the light gray walls. The coffee table was from IKEA, he noted immediately. Classy. There were blinds hanging in front of the only window, blocking the little sunlight there was in England from entering the room. Francis _tap-tap-tapped _over to the blinds and tugged on the cord.

It wouldn't budge.

He tried pulling it to the left, then the right. Then the left again.

Francis understood that the room would be child-proofed, but he was 26. Maybe a combination of the two? Right-left-up-left-down-left-right-up.

With a horrible zipping sound the blinds came tumbling down, one after the other, falling into a messy pile on the floor. Francis jumped back and his eyes darted to the door. It must have been soundproof as well, because no one seemed to have heard the ruckus. He took back the now-unlatched cord and pulled the blinds all the way up to the top, securing it with a satisfying _click._ To be honest, the dismal increase in lighting wasn't really worth the chaos he'd gone through, but Francis felt proud nonetheless. Contented by his initiative, he plopped down onto the nearest available surface.

_THUD._

The chair was not as soft as it looked, as Francis learned the hard way. Rubbing his bum and checking if the door had a window, he made an executive decision to stand and examine the children's paintings on the wall instead. About halfway through deciphering the handwriting on a piece with what appeared to be a girl with sausages for hair, the sound of pneumatic pumps and heavy grunting reached his ears. Before he could even turn around, he felt two chubby little arms and two floppy furry ones wrapping around his leg.

"Papa!" Matthew yelled. Or half-whispered, depending on your point of view. Matt was a remarkably quiet child.

"_Salut_, Matthieu! _Salut_, Kuma!" he said in greeting. Francis leaned down to hug the toddler, who for once was actually jumping with excitement. He lifted the precious little dumpling into the air, who squealed with joy. Kuma hung onto Matt's arm for dear life (or maybe it was the other way around).

The attendant cleared her throat. Her chocolate brown hair was tied back in a very professional way, enough to make Francis put down Matt fast, who fixated himself to his new papa's leg. They made their way over to the sofa, and Francis was pleasantly surprised to find that the sofa was much more comfortable than the chair. After dumping a few clipboards and an intimidating pile of paperwork onto the table, the woman sat down across from them, cheap black pen in hand.

"Alright, Mr. Bonnefoy. I have on file here for you the legal papers, as well as the court hearing and household inspection, so all we need now is for you to sign a few forms and you and Matt should be out of here in no time." She handed him the pen, gesturing with absurd stick-on nails at the places where he needed to sign. Ink danced across the sheets of legal jargon, one after another. Kumajiro and Matthieu were playing a quiet game of pattycake, made significantly more difficult by Kuma's distinct lack of muscles (or consciousness, for that matter). Matthieu wouldn't let that discourage him, though. Francis didn't catch the whole storyline, but it seemed events had shifted from hand games to a preschool-esque telenovela.

There was no clock in the room, but it felt like a few dozen hours before they were finally finished. (He checked later—it had only been 75 minutes.) The attendant shuffled the papers and shook his hand, leaving little nail marks in his skin. Francis rubbed his palm and thanked her once again for her service, and with the formalities out of the way, they were free to go.

Matthieu took the straps of his backpack in his pudgy little hands, and with great care, placed Kuma inside and zipped up the sides so that his head would stick out. "So he can breathe," he explained to Francis. "And…watch the trip home."

Francis smiled. "That is very courteous of you, Matthieu." With Matt's hand in one hand and Matt's duffel in the other, Francis and his new family walked out into the lobby and bid goodbye to Elise and Natalya.

"Who are they?" shy Matt said as he slowly emerged from behind Francis's leg.

"Oh, they are here to adopt a child too. If I remember correctly, her name was Lucille.**** Do you know her?"

They were out on the city streets now, puffs of breath floating from their mouths through the chilly air. Matthieu thought over his papa's question.

"Yeah. Loo-seel is…quiet. She's like me. But she wears…glasses. And sometimes we dress up Kumajiro together and…share my cray-ons."

"Oh? She has glasses? What does she look like?"

"…She has long pretty hair. Some-times she lets me…play with it. But it's u—uzu—uzulally in a braid."

"She sounds very nice. Tell you what, once we and her family get settled in, we can set up a playdate for the two of you."

Mattie smiled, gripping Francis' finger tighter as they made their way down the steps to the trains. He beamed when Francis held him up so he could swipe the Oyster card, and was fascinated by every train that pulled into the station. They looked at adverts while they waited, Francis translating them into French and Mattie stumbling across the words as he tried to repeat them. He was extra cautious to mind the gap, and peered through the window while Francis looked on with what could only be described as pure joy. Francis introduced him and Kumajiro to the doorman, who tipped his hat as a sign of courtesy. The lobby was so exciting and full of secrets Francis promised they would go back down once they'd gotten all of Mattie's belongings into the apartment. His eyes widened, full of curiosity, when he got to push the buttons to make the elevator go. They grew even bigger when the buttons lit up a neon orange, and he watched the big red digital display of their current floor, entranced.

At long last they made it to the apartment. Francis took Mattie's jacket and hung it up on a little plastic hook he'd stuck onto the wall near the coat closet. Two little boots sat next to two large dress shoes, one of them toppled. The little dumpling plopped onto the couch tentatively. Kuma jumped up and down after finally being released from the backpack. With Francis as their guide, they received the grand tour of the home, stopping finally at the entrance to Mattie's new room.

His eyes grew wide, and he pattered over in his tiny socks across the carpeting, grinning and lying down and getting all up in that fuzzy goodness. The toy chest was particularly exciting, full of mystical objects they had yet to encounter. Mattie explored while Francis transferred the clothes in the duffel to the closet and dresser. Honestly, he would have been content to just sit and watch Matt poke around, but there were (slightly) more important matters to attend to.

"So, Matthieu. We have a few choices for dinner, but first I want to ask: do you have a favorite food?"

Mattie turned around from the kitchenette, and, looking thoughtful, replied, "Pancakes are yummy…"

"Oh? I know a dinner recipe for omelettes; do you know what those are?"

Mattie shook his head.

"They are like pancakes, but they are made with eggs. It is a French recipe. Do you want to try it for dinner tonight?"

"…Egg pancakes?"

"_Oui. __Crêpes__aux œufs._ Omelettes."

"Cre…po-zu?" Mattie sounded out the syllables.

"_Oui,_ very good! Should we have that for dinner?" he said, smiling.

Mattie toddler smiled a tiny smile back. "…um…oo-wee?"

_This is going to work out just fine,_ Francis thought as he rose to retrieve 5 eggs from the fridge.

* She makes the _best _waffles.

** I've never been very good with metaphors.

*** A hilarious German slang term which literally means, "He will be as happy as a schnitzel (a type of sausage)."

**** Elise is Liechtenstein, Natalya is Belarus, and Lucille is Monaco.


	2. Orange Marmalade

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAD!"

A terrifying war cry rang through the air, followed by a big _WHUMP_, and then the wind left Arthur's chest.

"DAA-DY! DAA-DY! DAA-DY!" the chant continued. Arthur was still struggling to engage his lungs, made significantly more difficult by something heavy sitting on his bosom.

As his bleary eyes opened, a face swam in his field of vision. It was a cute face, too. It had really messy hair, though. And a huge mouth. A huge, screaming mouth.

"DADDY-PADDY-WADDY-KADDY-LADDY-SMADDY-YADDY!" It was singing now. Slightly off-key, and still screaming at the same time. Rhythmic screaming? It was like his own personal Linkin Park concert. At any rate, the oxygen had re-entered his lungs, and while he still felt weak from the temporary loss of circulation, at least he was strong enough now to tickle the thing sitting on his chest.

It squealed and jumped up and down. This made matters slightly better, as he could now catch the thing in the air and dump it onto the pillow next to him. He caught the munchkin under the arms and lifted it up and over to the second pillow in his bed, now askew thanks to the vicious attack. Arthur plopped it down onto the pillow. The thing sank into it and, arms flailing, was now giggling as it tried (and failed) to escape from the soft, squishy prison; mission accomplished! An 8-bit tune went off in Arthur's head as he expanded his freed chest and sucked in a beautiful breath of air. He sat up, scooting up so he was resting his back against the headboard, and picked up the kicking mass of limbs. The package was settled onto his lap tentatively, and, upon realizing it had landed, abruptly ceased its violent movements. It didn't stop grinning, though.

"Good morning, Alfred," Arthur said, nuzzling the chubby little cherub on the forehead with his nose. Alfred giggled and tried to do the same, which only made both their bedhead worse. Not that Arthur could really tell; the whole world was still blurry, as if he were looking through a frosted window.

Gently he pushed his new son—_his new son!—_off his lap and, groaning, slipped his bony feet into plaid slippers and bony arms in a matching robe. He stumbled into the adjoining bathroom and made it to the sink, but not before nearly tripping over the bathtub. Alfred tumbled off the bed with a thump and appeared by Arthur's leg in a flash. The boy tugged on Arthur's robe and jumped up and down the whole time he was putting in his contacts. Honestly, it was only 7 o' clock. Where did he get all this _energy_ from?

Alfred delivered a particularly strong tug to the robe, and Arthur's hand slipped as he fell into the wall and poked his eye. "Gah—OW!" Alfred shrieked and jumped back. Slowly he crept back towards Arthur, who was grabbing at his face. "Daddy?"

"Bloody h—Alfred! You can't _do_ that! I…ahhhgg…"

The boy's lower lip trembled. He choked back words as tears welled up in his eyes.

Alfred, his eye still watering, looked down at him. He sighed, inserted the contact. Bent down onto one knee and pulled him close. "Alfred…it's alright. Just try to be careful from now on, okay?"

_Sniff. _"O-okay." _Sniff._

Arthur got up and tore off a few squares of toilet paper and brought it back over to Alfred. He wiped away the sniffles until Alfred had stopped crying. "See? All better." Alfred nodded and wiped at his eye with a balled fist. "Now—what would you like to eat for breakfast? I have crumpets and cereal, so you can pick one from the kitchen."

He perked up. "What kind of cereal?" he asked, his eyes animated.

Arthur stretched and yawned. "Hmm…'m not quite sure myself. Let's go look." Arthur held out his hand. Alfred was eager to take it. Together they walked to the kitchen, accompanied by the soft patter of slippers and creaking of floorboards. Arthur pulled out a stepstool from the cupboard under the sink, which Alfred took and used to clamber up onto the countertop while the crotchety ol' man was busy fiddling with the tea kettle. Alfred stuck to the wall, swinging around the cupboard door, focused so as to keep his balance. The corners were sharp; he had to be careful not to hit himself in the head.

With one swift movement the door was open and he had made it to the other side. Alfred turned his head to keep track of Arthur, who was still preoccupied at the stove with his tea. Alfred directed his attention back to the cupboard, which held…a rather disappointing selection of cereal. Shreddies, Eggos, and…br—a. Bram flay-kies? He'd never seen the logo before, so it was hard to tell what they were. Not like it mattered. They looked really gross.

"Say, Al—ALFRED! How did you get up there?!"

Oops. He turned around just to see Arthur scramble over and lift him off the counter and onto the floor. "You could have hit your head and fallen! Goodness, Alfred, if you wanted the cereal, you could have told me and I would have gotten it for you! Besides, that's not hygienic, the countertop is a place for _food_, your dirty feet shouldn't be walking on it…"

Alfred had tuned out somewhere around "besides". "That cereal looks gross."

Arthur was startled out of his lecture. "Uh—I beg your pardon?" he asked, his expression quizzical.

"Bram flaykies look yucky. I wanna eat something else."

"Oh. Um. Sure, of course," he replied, taken aback. "Would you rather have a crumpet?"

Alfred looked at him with one eyebrow cocked, his mouth twisted in confusion. "What does that taste like?"

"Really? You've never had a crumpet before?"

Alfred shook his head.

"Oh! Blimey. Well, I suppose they're rather plain, but I have jams and marmalades in the fridge to make it more appetizing. Here, I'll toast one for you, and you can see if you like it."

"What's 'a-pet-tizin'?"

"Um, just a fancy word for good-tasting, really," Arthur replied, but Alfred had already toddled over to the fridge to look for jam. Arthur smiled and shook his head, walking over to plug in the toaster oven.

"What kinda jam do you have?" Alfred said while Arthur was retrieving the crumpets. Arthur poked through the knife block for a bread knife and replied, "Strawberry, orange, and raspberry marmalade."

"_Orange_?" Alfred had completely forgotten about the open fridge, instead gaping at Arthur.

"Yes, orange," Arthur said. He found the bread knife and laid it on the cutting board next to the crumpets. When he saw Alfred's expression, he laughed and bent down. "What are you looking so astonished for, little man?"

"I didn't know you could make jam from _oranges! _That's so weeiiiird! What does it _taste_ like? Is it good?" He waited for the answer to his question with bated breath.

There was a smile in Arthur's voice. "Well _I _certainly think so, I wouldn't keep it in my house otherwise. Would you care to try some?"

His eyes lit up, and a big grin grew on his face. "_Really? _Yes yes yes yes yes!" he chanted, jumping up and down. Arthur chuckled and ruffled his hair before getting up and fetching the marmalade from the fridge. "Go get your stepstool, Alfred, and you can help me make it." He didn't need to be told twice; Alfred ran over to the stepstool and dragged it to the counter in a flash.

"Alright. Are you ready?" Arthur asked.

"Mhmm!" Alfred said, accompanied by an enthusiastic nod.

"Now," Arthur began, picking up the bread knife, "I'm going to cut open the crumpet so it's evenly toasted, and since it's dangerous for kids to handle knives because they are very sharp. And then, once it's sliced"—he handed the two pieces to Alfred, who took them eagerly—"you put them into the toaster oven." He opened the door and pulled out the rack.

"Do I put them on there?"

"Mm-hmm. The inside faces down." Tentatively Alfred slid them onto the rack and pushed it back in. "Next we close the oven door," Arthur narrated, "and then push this button—see, the one that says 'toast'?" Alfred did as he was told. "Push that until it says '2'." _Boop. Boop. _"And then 'start'."_ Boooop. _

The contraption whirred to life, emitting a red glow.

"It's singing!" Alfred observed. "Hmmmmm, hmm-hmmmmmm! I can sing with the toaster! Hmmmmmm…"

_What an odd child, _Arthur thought to himself. He listened to Alfred's little concert until a _ding! _sounded.

"Are they ready? Are they ready?" Alfred asked.

"One moment," Arthur replied, fetching an ugly crocheted potholder Peter had given him for Christmas."It's very hot, be careful," he warned.

He wrapped the potholder around the wire rack and pulled it out to reveal two slightly burnt, crispy crumpet halves. Alfred snatched them carelessly and threw them onto his plate while Arthur looked on in terror and struggled to stutter a reprimand. The little boy then grabbed the jam jar and started twisting the lid with all his might (which wasn't much). His chubby fingers went deep pink, then white.

"Can you open it?" he asked, shoving the jar at Arthur.

"Ah—yes, of course," he said, and twisted off the top with ease. But he held the jam jar hostage while he lectured Alfred over manners and the dangers of heat. Needless to say, Alfred eventually took the jar back with glee and started spooning large glops onto the (now lukewarm) toast.

"Goodness, Alfred, not so much! Here, we can spread it out with the back of the spoon; no need to dump the whole container," Arthur scolded, taking back the spoon and transferring big globs of jam back into the jar. Alfred pouted and stuck out his lower lip. Eventually they managed to reach a compromise, and the little one marched over to the countertop with his prize. Tossing it up onto the counter, he clambered up the barstool while Arthur was busy rescuing the tea he'd forgotten about and dug into the meal.

"mmmmmMMMMMM. IT'S SO GOO-OOD," he squealed, stuffing the remaining bread into his mouth. Arthur spun around with a startled "How in God's name—", but by then Alfred was already in the living room and bouncing on the couch. The antique, clean, spot-free couch.

"Heavens, Alfred, get down from there! Have you even washed your hands yet?!" Arthur yelped. His mug was set back on the counter hurriedly as he slipped and slid in his felt-bottom slippers over to the sofa, and some tea sloshed over the side and made a little puddle on the laminate. Arthur jumped and tackled the youngster mid-bounce, but he hadn't planned his trajectory very well. His eyes looked down his nose and down at the quickly approaching floor. Instinctively, he let go of Alfred, who was tossed into the corner of the sofa against a few pillows. Arthur, however, wasn't so lucky. With a loud _BANG_, his forehead met the corner of the coffee table, disturbing the collection of boring business magazines and newspapers he still needed to read. So as soon as he rolled over and breathed heavily, shocked and still puzzling over what just happened, the stack of reading material came raining down upon his battered form. It was a good ten seconds until he ceased to be pelted with literature, leaving Arthur buried alive in a pile of words and yet somehow struggling to find ones that would describe the last 15 seconds. Sputtering and biting back curses, he emerged from his papery grave, holding his fingers to his skull to see if there was any blood.

Just as he was gearing up for a full-on lecture, he heard an outburst of laughter from behind a sofa cushion. It wouldn't stop, either. It just kept on going and going, until laughs turned into giggles—but then they became laughs again—and slowly Arthur rose up and tore away the cushion. There, curled up and cheeks red, was Alfred. His hair messy, his PJs wrinkled and riding up his tummy, but his eyes were pure blue, and looked so very _happy_. Should Arthur be worried about his adopted son's slightly disturbing love for slapstick comedy? Probably, but even though there was still jam on Alfred's fingers, and even though Arthur would have a terrible time brushing out his hair after a fall like that, he decided to skip the reprimand, and maybe just tickle the little dough ball instead.

* * *

**Hmm. Interesting chapter.**

**Things will escalate into much more than simple family fluff, don't worry. *evil grin***

**Reviews are always appreciated, and I'll try to get the next chapter out on or before Sunday!**


	3. The Plight of the Shattered Cats

"—Oh _mon dieu,_ someday when you have children too, you will understand. It is just the most wonderful feeling I get everyday picking him up from kindergarten and seeing that adorable smile on his face," Francis enthused, sipping his coffee and neglecting the blank word document on his computer screen. Rain pattered against the glass front of the café, a simple soundtrack alongside the low hum of indie background music and quiet conversations that intermingled that Tuesday morning.

"You've posted at least 5 photos of his adorable smile on every social media account you own, Francis-co. We know," Antonio replied, grinning, from behind the counter. His towel squeaked against the mug he was drying off, its ceramic surface adorned with various cat memes. Setting it down and moving onto the next one (this time with an angry cartoon bull complete with a nose ring), he continued, "And have you forgotten? I was the caretaker of Lovi, you know."

"That doesn't count, the only reason you were his caretaker was 'cause he was 17 when it happened. You were, like, besties with his older brother in secondary school, of course he'd stay with a family friend," Gilbert pointed out, barely looking up from his book.

"I was 21 when they put him in my custody! Do you know how young 17-year-olds seem to a 20-year-old?" he replied defensively.

"Toni, I'm sorry to put it this way, but he's 22 now. When are you going to stop pretending he's still a child?" Francis took his hands away from the keyboard of his laptop and rested his stubbly chin on his palm.

Antonio stacked both mugs, along with a third decorated with a checkerboard of hearts in different shades of pink, by the row of coffee machines and leaned against the counter on his hip, arms crossed. "I'm not pretending he's a child! He just seems young to me since I've known him for so long. Besides, we are friends now, we went to see that new movie last weekend, no? And he texts me all the time. Day and night, I'm always hearing from that boy."

The blonde sighed. "All I'm saying is, you still brag about being his guardian. It was 5 years ago, _chéri._ I'm sure he's tired of you thinking about him that way."

"_Eso es ridículo. _Completely ridiculous."

"Why are you getting so worked up over this, Franny? Do you ship them or something?" Gil piped up from over in his armchair.

"Francis! Is that true? I wouldn't put it past you."

"I may enjoy playing matchmaker, but you have to admit I have an eye for these sorts of things. Why don't you give him a chance, hmm?" He winked.

Before Francis had time to duck, Antonio came over from behind the counter and whapped him upside the head with the dishtowel. Francis shrieked and then started laughing, but only after he'd checked his reflection in the local artwork on the walls and made sure his hair hadn't been disturbed.

"_Pervertido!* _Ay-ay-ay." Antonio returned to his position behind the counter and got back to work removing a batch of biscotti from the oven.

"Oh please, don't tell me you haven't noticed the way he's always trying to get your attention? That boy turns green with jealousy every time he hears we've been hanging out. Oh, and—remember back when you were so deeply in love with Roderich?"

Antonio groaned. "Don't remind me."

Gilbert cracked up from over in his corner. "You two got engaged and everything! West was SO weirded out. It was hilarious!"

"We all make mistakes, okay?!" Antonio yelled, flustered.

"That's harsh, man," Gilbert said quietly, still chuckling, before going back to his book.

"But you do remember asking Lovino to be a groomsman, non? He wouldn't talk to you for an entire month after that. He still hates Roderich with a fiery passion," Francis continued. "Don't you ever wonder why?"

"He's that way with everyone. See, he even treats me that way."

"Maybe so, but if he truly hated you, he wouldn't always be going out of his way to get your attention. You yourself say he's constantly texting you, non?"

"Francis. He's _straight_."

"No such thing exists."

A harsh ringtone cut through the ambience, the rapid trilling of a xylophone bouncing off the padded walls. Antonio jumped, his arm wheeling around behind him and sending the topmost mug flying. It made contact with the floor and shattered, fractured cat faces flying everywhere.

Ignoring the catastrophe, Francis instead voted to further taunt his friend. "That's him right now, calling you to profess his undying love for you!"

"Amigo, that is not my phone. My ringtone is 'Since U Been Gone'," Antonio pointed out, crouching on the floor and cradling mug shards in his hand.

Francis started rifling through his laptop bag, frantic to get to his cellphone before the call was sent to voicemail. Finally he snatched it out of a random pocket, fumbled it in his frenzy, grabbed it again and glanced at the caller ID for a split second before pressing the "Answer" button.

The number read as (1) 020-519-9746. _An unknown mobile telephone in London, _he thought to himself.

_Wait, what?_

* * *

"So I've got the day off."

"That's what I said, yes."

"So…absolutely no clients for me today?"

"Arthur. _No_."

"Right, well…" He coughed. "Ahem. I'll be going then. Good day, Lin."

"Have a fine day off, Irkland."

"Hmmph!" He hung up, tossing the landline back onto its cradle. Stupid Lin. She deserved a prize for Most…Buggerish Office Assistant of the Year.

Nice one, Arthur.

It really was a stroke of luck, though, that his client schedule had been empty. He'd barely slept at all last night, tossing and turning with only brief intermissions of blissful rest. When the alarm buzzer had jarred him awake at 7:30, he had had to force himself to _literally_ roll out of bed, and incidentally hit his head on the corner of the bedside table. (What was it with him and hitting his head on random tables?) Not even a cup of extra-strength black tea had been enough to get him functioning, and that stuff had so much caffeine it was barely legal.**

At least Alfred wasn't awake yet. No amount of caffeine could sufficiently prepare him for that boy's hijinks.

Already sipping on his 3rd mug of tea, he trudged over to his desktop computer. (At this point, his near-constant tea consumption was more of an unconscious habit than an active attempt to wake up in the morning.) _Might as well check e-mail, _he thought to himself, logging on. He typed in the URL, hit enter, and—

2 messages. Yay. So good to know that he was missed.

The first was spam, immediately banished to the trash section. The second was from…"OLAA"? He explored further. Oh. It was the Official London Adoption Agency. _It's been months since I adopted Alfred. What are they contacting me for?_ Arthur scrolled down to the body of the email.

* * *

Dear Mr. Arthur A. Kirkland,

Due to an error in the file management system of the adoption agency, some very important information regarding your adopted child, Alfred F. Jones, was accidentally glossed over. In a file recovered during our recent clean-up of the filing system, it was stated that the children Alfred F. Jones and Matthew Williams are related by blood as twin brothers. Because of the deep emotional bonds formed between siblings (especially twins) and precarious nature of their situations as adoptees, it is vital that they come in contact with each other very often and be able to form this aforementioned bond. Since this is so important to their well-being and upbringing, Child Protective Services will require evidence that they are able to, and consistently do, meet in person at least once every week, if not more. Whether by photographs, videos, or otherwise, the evidence will need to be presented at least once a month to the board so that we can make sure they are receiving the treatment they need. We strive to prevent these mishaps as often as possible, however mistakes do happen and cannot always be prevented. Your cooperation, as a legal guardian and parent of this child, is expected, and Alfred F. Jones may have to be removed from the home if you do not comply due to legal restrictions regarding this situation.  
In order to speed up the process and make sure the two children can meet as soon as possible, contact information for the parent of Matthew Williams has been stated below:

Francis M. Bonnefoy  
Address: 529 Dean Farrar Street, London, UK  
Home Phone: 020 - 428 - 6902  
Mobile Phone: (1) - 020 - 337 - 1872  
E-Mail Address: fbonn

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. If you have any questions, or require support, please reply to the e-mail address that was used to send this e-mail.

Sincerely,

Peggy L. Smith

OLAA Head of Crisis Management

* * *

_Wow, crisis management? _was Arthur's first thought. His second was, _Christ, that's a pretty big mix-up. How am I supposed to arrange something for Alfred _once a week_? Oh bollocks, what if I hate this man? I'm not expected to _marry _him, am I? His name looks French. I hate French people! God, what am I going to _do_? _

After a good minute of panicking, he decided to calm down and phone the number the agency gave him. Then he rethought that thought and decided to wait until it wasn't 7:56AM. Speaking of which—Alfred had to be at school at 8:20.

Arthur threw a crumpet into the toaster oven and scrambled into Alfred's bedroom, his feet scrunching up the rug as he ran. Alfred was shaken awake and tugged into a hoodie and jeans as he yelled out loud about why were they hurrying? and offered up his own theories (including a giant robot and an armada of sentient pickles) while he was carried to breakfast. Arthur brushed out Alfred's hair into something socially acceptable as he gobbled up his breakfast, and practically brushed his teeth for him once he was done. Suited up and full of food, they hurried out the door, got stuck in traffic, and finally made it to kindergarten at 8:19.

With Alfred taken care of until 2:55, Arthur obeyed traffic safety laws and adhered to the speed limit the entire trip to the supermarket. He plundered the aisles of their tea stock, and picked up ingredients for some stew (the only thing he could really cook without burning himself or the meal). Satisfied, he rolled his cart up to the register, and the cashier raised an eyebrow at his rather tasteless selection of food while everything was checked out. Back at the car, hauling his groceries into the trunk, he felt the bulge of his phone in his pocket. _Oh right. I'm supposed to call that Francis bloke today._ He slammed the trunk closed while lost in thought, trapping the handle of a paper bag in between the door. _I suppose I could just get it over with now. _He glanced back at the groceries. _Hmm…the call could last a while, though. That's some fairly heavy information I've got to discuss there. The groceries will spoil. I'll bring them home, brew up some tea, and then call._ His plan for the day settled on, he put the car into gear (yes, he still drove a stick shift) and headed back home, parking the car back in the building's lot before heading inside. The tea was brewed, the number dialed, and the Englishman sitting in his favorite chair. Now all he had to do was wait.

And wait…and wait…

The answering machine started up on the other end, but he decided it was worth a shot to try the mobile number before giving up completely. He was about to do just that as the 5th ring sounded, when a slightly breathless voice rang out over the speaker.

"_Bonjour_, this is Francis Bonnefoy speaking."

Crap. He was so French he could practically smell the overpriced cheese from here. "Hello? I, um…I assume you got the email?"

"Email? This is the first I've heard of it."

"Oh…" How was he supposed to explain a situation like this? "Well, um, if you wouldn't mind checking now…"

"_Oui, _already on it," Francis replied. Arthur heard the tapping and clicking of the computer in the background. Some weird music was playing, too. "May I ask what the topic of this email is?"

"It's from the London Adoption Agency; they had a mix-up and it got the both of us involved, apparently." He was doing a really crummy job of explaining this.

"Ah, I see it now." Pause. "So I'm guessing you are Mr. Arthur A. Kirkland?" Weird how you could almost hear someone smiling over the phone.

"Yes, I'm the father of Alfred, and you the father of Matthew, correct?"

"_Oui…_Twin brothers, hmm?" The man chuckled. "I suppose we should set something up where our little families can meet up in person. I'm free on Saturday, or Thursday after I pick up Matthieu from school."

"I work a 9-to-5, so I'm afraid the only time that works for me is Saturday. Is 11 or so good for you?"

"Oh, a lunch date? Wonderful! See, I work as an author/photographer, so I'm usually free any day of the week."

Arthur stuttered. "I—um, well, no—"

"Would you like to meet in Hyde Park? I'll take care of the food, don't worry."

"Right, but I'm not interested in a _date_!"

"Hm?" Pause. "Ah, my sincerest apologies! I didn't realize…English is a terribly confusing language, _non_? But now that we have that cleared up, are we set for Saturday at 11?"

"Uh—sure, that works."

"Fantastic! I'll see you then."

"Good day—" He would have tried to think of a better way to sign off, but the line had already gone dead. Well. Francis M. Bonnefoy might be a little flamboyant, and his job didn't sound like the most stable living, but he couldn't be that bad. He was polite, at least. Maybe they would get along, after all! He really ought to see this as a _positive _thing. A chance to make a new friend.

Oh, if only he knew.

* * *

* You can probably guess what that means. (Hint: Take away the "-ido". Get it now?)

** I have no idea if this is true or not; all I know is that black tea is heavily caffeinated. Forgive me for not being well-versed in the intricacies of tea regulations regarding the United Kingdom.

* * *

**My conversation game is weak today, I'm really sorry. I'm going to give myself a week for the next chapter, so hopefully I can make the next installment longer and with more plot development. On another note, if you're following me as an author, keep an eye out for Ludwig's Daycare. I have no guarantees as to when it will be coming out, but it's...it's, um...**

**It's weird. _Very _weird.**

**As always, reviews are appreciated, and thank you for reading! :)**


	4. Etiquette Lessons (Or the Lack Thereof)

Arthur sat on the rickety bench, his eyes watching Alfred climb a tree, his mind anxious and overanalyzing every detail of the "lunch date" his stupid self had agreed to. He shifted uncomfortably. Was he underdressed? He'd worn a freshly pressed pair of khakis, and his favorite sweater vest, but his shoes were old and worn. The French were known for their fashion, right? Probably known for their judgment, too. Good god, this was a terrible idea!

He heard a delighted scream from over by the tree and leapt onto his feet, fearing a disaster. But Alfred had only fallen from a low-hanging branch; in fact, he was already clambering up again. Arthur settled back down onto the bench, unconscious of his fingers playing out an old pop tune on an invisible guitar. Suddenly he spotted an extremely stylish man out of the corner of his eye, his flowing blond hair tied back in a violet ribbon, accompanied by a little boy. The little one was clutching the man's finger, the one that wasn't occupied with a picnic basket. The child had a stuffed polar bear clutched against his chest. It looked like it was suffocating, to be quite honest. Arthur sympathized with the poor bear. Then he wondered what the hell was wrong with himself.

Across the way, Francis was in the middle of a conversation with Matthew, not noticing the awkward Brit sitting on a rotting bench a few hundred meters in front of him. They strolled through the undulating field of fresh spring grass and assorted weeds, children squealing and running around them. Families sat on benches, taking pictures of their kids playing in the dry springtime air. Couples (mostly teenagers) were perched on top of the stone wall running along one side, ranging from simply holding hands to full on make-out sessions. Francis felt a pang in his gut, wanting more than anything to be sitting up there with a lover of his own. Turning his attention back to his son, he asked, "So you do know Alfred, then?"

Matthew removed his thumb from his mouth to speak, kicking a stone along with his sandals. "We played together every day. He likes playing the Superman doll, and he rescues Kumajojo," Mattie said, in his whisper of a voice. After a pause he added, "I play Kumajiroop."

"Are you excited to see him, then?" Francis prompted, but for once Mattie kept on talking, ignoring Francis's question.

"And he trades…crackers with me. I like the crunchy wheat ones, and he likes the goldfish. And our favorite show is Postman Pat, but he really likes Dora the Explorer too. We draw pictures in art, and we get the crayons we like before the other kids take them. They have com-pyooders in the corner, and there was a typing penguin game, and you have to press the right button to get him fish. And Alfred got really good and the teacher gave him a sticker because he beat the high score. And we color our maths cards together with the crayons, and he always draws a Superman, and sometimes he shows me how to draw a bear. Sometimes I help him draw the Superman, or Dora because she needs _special_ purple crayons…" Mattie went on and on, Francis feeling worse and worse with every sentence. It had been 2 and ½ months since he'd seen his brother, whom he obviously had an extremely strong relationship with. But the boy's eyes were lit up with something that wasn't always there, and a tiny smile had snuck onto his face. Regardless of whatever had happened in the past, they were going to see each other now.

Someone cleared his throat. Francis started and whipped his head around to see—

No. It couldn't be. Not the man from the tube.

"I presume you are Fra—"

"_Eyebrows?_" As soon as he said it, Francis clamped his hand to his mouth. Apparently his tact had decided to take an off day, today of all days. And for some reason it had flown all the way to China.

Arthur sputtered, his cheeks flushing. "Wha-? I—I beg your pardon?"

"Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. But yes, I am Francis Bonnefoy, and you are Arthur Kirkland, no?" He stuck out his hand, a desperate grin on his face.

Arthur looked down at the peace offering with an alarmed expression. Stuttering slightly, he shook it after a few seconds. "Charmed," he replied, sarcasm leaking into his voice despite his best intentions. He just _knew _this Frenchman wouldn't measure up. Figures he always had the worst luck.

While the two adults had been having their more-than-awkward exchange, the two boys had already run off together, elated at their long-overdue reunion. Alfred pointed at the tree swing, which the previous family had just left empty. Mattie stared at it as Alfred talked, squeezing Kumajiro to his chest. Apparently Alfred convinced him to get on, because soon Mattie and Kuma were soaring through the air, joy evident on his face. (Mattie's face, or the bear's?) Al was pushing, grinning with such a wide smile it looked like it would spill over the sides of his face.

Arthur stared down at his feet, unsure of what to do next, and Francis took the initiative to unpack the picnic basket on the grass. He spread out a blanket with a French university logo on it. Spots of dew soaked through, peppering the blanket with small dark dots. He placed plates assorted with cheese and petite tea sandwiches in the center, taking care to arrange the slices in a flower-like pattern. Feeling useless, Arthur watched the two children cajoling around the tree. He and Francis may have gotten off to a bad (horrendous) start, but Matthew and Alfred seemed to be having the time of their lives. Now Mattie was the one pushing Alfred, although he was pumping so furiously he probably didn't need much help.

Crap. Now he would be stuck with this idiot at least once a week, if not more, snacking on his food and having forced discussions with a man he already disliked within the first five minutes of knowing him.

Francis cleared his throat, jarring Arthur out of his thoughts. "The lunch is all set out, if you care to eat," he said, in that annoying French accent of his. Arthur obliged with a sigh, settling down onto the stupid French blanket to eat the stupid French lunch this stupid French man had brought in a stupid French picnic basket.

Man, was he prejudiced against the French. But they smell like blue cheese, so at least he had a good reason for it.

Arthur begrudgingly took a tea sandwich, disappointed that he had no tea to go along with it. As he munched on his food, (which was more delicious than he would care to admit) he glanced over at Francis, who was at present opening up a small container with an even smaller quantity of salad inside.

"What, are you not going to eat the food you brought?" he asked through a mouthful of cucumber and cream cheese. So much for manners. He had that weird British way of saying "what" as if there were an O in the middle. It bothered Francis, and it wasn't even his language. But hey, at least the man was talking to him. He might as well try to interact with him. Anything to make him forget that awful greeting.

"I brought this, didn't I?" he responded without thinking much, popping the cap off a small container of dressing. His mind raced for something more to say, something to steer the conversation towards something more pleasant, more sociable.

"I meant the sandwiches and cheeses and stuff," Arthur said, annoyed. The tone of his voice stung, and Francis did his best to keep from cringing.

"I usually have a salad for lunch. I'm on a bit of a diet, and all," he said with an uncomfortable laugh. "The cheeses and sandwiches are for you and the boys; I figured you might want something with a little more flavor than my bland selection of lettuce. Apparently Alfred is not impartial to cheddar? Is that true, or has Matthieu mislead me?" he said, fishing around to see what Arthur would pick up on.

"Em, no, he certainly enjoys it," Arthur answered. He looked over at the couples on the wall. A man had his arm around his boyfriend, and they sat together, talking and gazing into each other's eyes. Odd.

Francis, meanwhile, was trying to figure out what he could do to capture this man's attention. "Isn't love beautiful?" he said, gesturing to the two men Arthur was obviously staring at.

Arthur jumped, a blush spreading across his features. "Oh, u-uh. I guess. I've never really been of the romantic sort." He brushed off the topic and turned away from him, trying to hide his face.

Okay, so not that. There was a little crunch as Francis bit into his lunch. Once he'd finished chewing his lettuce, he changed the subject. "They get along so well. Matthieu and Alfred, I mean. Simply adorable," he said, smiling.

"That they do," Arthur replied. He coughed and turned towards the green grass, finishing off his tea sandwich and watching the blades flow in the wind. Tree leaves cut out intricate patterns with the absence of light, throwing shadows to weave in and out as their branches swayed.

Francis watched with curiosity the stare of the Englishman, so intently focused on something so trivial. To be fair, the scene was gorgeous; the sun had decided to make a rare appearance today, and the sunbeams and sparse clouds saturated the colors of the world, transforming everything into a rainbow. He would have liked to paint it. Arthur's thoughts were traveling along the same tracks, and if he had just left it at that, resigned himself to silence and appreciated the world around him, maybe things would have turned out more favorable for the both of them. But Francis was a conversationalist, and sitting on a picnic blanket with a stranger without exchanging a word was just as awkward in his mind. So he continued, nattering on, trying to find something to get the other man to talk. "Matthieu would not stop talking about him the entire way here. I believe the phrase is…how do you say…'brotherly love'?"

Arthur sighed a little. _Please just leave me _alone_, _he thought to himself before replying, "They are twins, I suppose one would expect that of them."

Francis grasped and clawed at something, _anything, _he could say to get a discussion going. He tried again. "So, how is Alfred at home? He seems like such an energetic little boy. Don't you ever get tired, being his father?"

"I've got my fair share of bruises from falling into random pieces of furniture thanks to him, so yes, you could say that." Arthur came off quite a bit more haughty than he had intended. Oops. Maybe he'd get the message and just leave him alone, and they could go their separate ways, set aside these few hours a week.

Francis refused to take a hint and tossed all caution to the wind, turning to his last resort—talking about himself. "See, Matthieu is such a docile and quiet child, sometimes I almost forget he's there at all."

_Well that seems rather negligent of him as a parent, _Arthur thought. He was liking this Frenchman less and less every minute, if that was possible.

He continued, the final sentences that sealed the fate of whatever their relationship could have been. "That stuffed bear he carries around probably talks more than he does. And I can never remember his name; it seems like it changes every time he says it. Do you know what 'kumajiro' means? I'm not sure he does, or even where he got the name from. Sometimes—"

"Why are you being so hard on him? He's barely 4 years of age," Arthur said. "That seems rather irresponsible to me, bad-mouthing your child in front of someone you've just met."

_Fuck. _At this point he was drawing a complete blank. How was he supposed to respond to that? His final strategy had fallen through, and now Mr. Eyebrows was mad at him. He tried to say something, maybe make amends, but Arthur wasn't having it.

"You—you can't just talk like that about a child! Don't you have any respect for him? I'm sure he's a fantastic little boy," he said, trying to keep from shouting. He didn't really like to cause scenes, but that never seemed to stop him.

"My apologies, sir, I was merely looking for something to talk about…you weren't exactly making it easy." On second thought, maybe blaming him wasn't a great idea, but there wasn't much he could do about it now.

"I hardly think that's a good reason to mouth off about your son. And just what are you blaming _me _for in this situation, hmm?"

"I was trying to be polite!"

"Well, maybe I didn't _want _to talk to you. Did you ever consider that?"

Francis balked. "That is what you are supposed to _do _in social settings! Did _you _ever consider that?" _Merde,_ did this man make him angry! He wanted to scream just looking at his grumpy face, and his words were even worse. The feeling was mutual, apparently.

"Last I checked, reading a person's body language is expected in social settings too."

"You weren't even trying to talk to me! And, quite frankly, you always look irritable; how could you expect me to make a distinction?"

Arthur made a_ harrumph _sort of sound, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest, baring the ugly sweater vest for the world to see. "Well! Some gentleman you are. Not that I should have expected anything more from the _French_." He spat the word with contempt. Turning away, he grumbled, "I knew my grandfather and his stories were true."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Oh _putain. _You're one of THOSE people, aren't you?" He brought his hand to his forehead, forgetting not to touch his face. "I can't believe this. Just my luck."

Just then the two children, hungry after a long session on the swing, wandered over to the blanket. Francis noticed them coming and faced them, plastering a pleasant smile on his face. Arthur shot daggers at him from across the blanket. "Ah, boys, you are back! _Salut!_ Would you like some sandwiches? Help yourself." Alfred already had, plopping himself down with a pleased expression and a face smeared with butter. Mattie sat next to him, carefully taking apart the different elements of the sandwich and eating them one by one.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, Daddy?" Alfred asked, pointing at the sandwich plate. It was already half-empty, massacred sandwich remains smeared across its surface.

"I think I'm going to have some good British scones when I get home. I much prefer them to these," he answered, looking more at Francis than at Alfred. Francis narrowed his eyes at the insult.

"Ooh, can I have some too?" Alfred squealed, then turned to address Matthew. "Daddy makes the BEST scones. They're super yummy and crunchy!"

Francis stared at Arthur with horror. "Did you _brainwash _the poor child?" he hissed. Arthur huffed and looked away, a scowl on his face.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Alfred and Matthew had eaten their fill, playing with Kumajiro and tossing a ball they found in a crick back and forth. Francis packed up as quickly as he could while trying not to make it look like he was doing so. Arthur glanced at his wristwatch and gestured to Alfred. "Come now, Alfred, it's time we got back home."

The boys' faces fell. "Aww, man! But we were having so much fun! Is it really time to go already?"

A wave of guilt washed over Arthur, but he couldn't stand to sit here with the French idiot any longer. "I'm afraid so. You'll get to see each other next week, okay?" he said, already cringing at the thought of their next meeting.

Alfred stuck out his lower lip and said goodbye to Mattie, pouting as he walked over to Alfred. Mattie followed suit, dragging Kumajiro over to Francis and clutching his papa's pant leg. Francis picked up the picnic basket and blanket as the two said their last goodbyes.

As they were about to leave, Francis piped up. "So. Same time next week?"

Arthur held his nose high. "Can't wait."

* * *

**Eh. It got a bit better, I hope. I've felt kind of dead all week, if that means anything. Anyway, I have a lot of ideas for later in the story, which I'm super excited for. So look forward to that! **

**As for Ludwig's Daycare - again, no promises on when it's coming out, but it'll probably be around 8,000 - 10,000 words, one chapter. A crack fanfiction, and an excessively weird one at that.**

**As always - please review! It's always great to receive questions, comments, constructive criticism, etc. as an author. And thank you for reading! Next chapter will be out next Sunday (on Easter).**


	5. Francis Strikes Back (Unintentionally)

F: [are you going to be finished with your dreary office job anytime soon?]

Bloody idiot.

A: [Why can't they just meet in the park like we've done the past few weeks?]

F: [check the forecast]

He poked around his cell until the weather app popped up. 87% chance of thunderstorms and heavy showers, all the way through Tuesday. It's not that he didn't mind the rainy weather—in fact, he loved rain. It was tapping against his windows at this very moment. But the last thing he wanted was to be trapped inside the same building as Francis, especially if that building was Francis's supposedly superior apartment. He kept going on and on about how Alfred deserved to see some true couture and witness his fantastic décor.

F: [alfred should be exposed to style, or are you afraid he'll realize just how lacking in taste his own home is?]

See?

A: [I would rather we meet somewhere more neutral.]

F: […]

A: [Like a restaurant or something.]

F: [moving a bit fast, aren't we? ;) ]

A: [shut your yap]

F: [café it is then]

A: [When did I say anything about a café?]

F: [when you rejected your own offer for a date]

A: [I WASNT ASKING FOR A BLOOMING DATE]

F: [i wouldn't have accepted anyway, don't worry]

A: [Thank God. I'm choosing the café.]

F: [if they have "bangers and mash" on their menu i'm not going]

A: [No worries, I'll make sure they do.]

F: [no need to be so courteous.]

F: [if you'll excuse me, i need to get back to writing my manuscript and sipping delicious coffee from this exquisite FRENCH café i happen to be working in]

A: [Good riddance. And what kind of a writer doesn't use proper punctuation when he texts? I do hope that manuscript isn't riddled with half as much improper English as your cellphone conversations.]

Hmmph. No reply. He went back to his work. 5 minutes later, he clicked the home button.

_Still _no notifications.

He continued calculating tax returns, but found himself returning to the home screen of his cellphone before he'd finished even one equation.

Pfft. Another good comeback, _wasted. _How ungrateful of him. Arthur looked up at the wall clock. (Not like there was one on his computer or anything.) 5:20 marked his freedom from "his dreary office job". Sadly, 5:20 was an hour away. He tried finishing the file for his latest client, but it was one of those days when everything serves as a distraction and, eventually, you give up on getting anything done.

He got up, his stomach tugging him towards the cafeteria. Munching on a cheap chocolate chip cookie with a lukewarm tea in his hand, he thought back on their conversation. Where _should_ they go? He leaned back, thinking, the sharp edge of the linoleum countertop digging into his back. Crumbs dropped onto his too-tight shirt. He brushed them off. The seams around his shoulders complained.

Actually, now that he thought about it…he didn't know _any _good cafés. He rarely went out, choosing the solitude of his own home over the trials and tribulations of human interaction. _Maybe that's why I'm still single, _he mused. Huh. He wandered back over to his computer, the patter of raindrops against the windows, the buzzes of copiers and telephones, the low hum of soft conversations invisible to his ears while he walked, lost in thought. Finding himself back in his cubicle, he hopped onto the internet.

Good cafés…near London…no, near me…hmm…What was sure to piss off the Frenchman with an appreciation for the finer things in life?

Erasing his previous query, he typed "cheap cafés near me" into the search bar and hit enter. A site popped up with user reviews, and before long he'd navigated to The Milkman, apparently a dollar-and-a-half on the priceyness scale. Nice. Further clicking revealed that it wasn't far from his home, either. And after a brief search of their website, he discovered that they did, in fact, serve bangers and mash.

Perfect. Francis would hate it.

The thick slap of paper landing on his desk jarred him from his thoughts. "Kirkland!" He jumped at his name.

"Uh, Mr. Oxenstierna? Is there a problem?"

He glared at Arthur from behind his slim metal glasses. "None. I was just coming over here to say good job with your latest client, and keep up the good work," Mr. Oxenstierna said, in that awkward monotone of his. The giant leaned over Arthur's shoulder and looked at the site he'd pulled up. "Are you looking for cafés?"

Arthur nodded tentatively, unsure of whether or not he was in trouble.

"I didn't like The Milkman much. Their coffee was watery and their croissants tasted too sweet." He mused. Arthur watched, confused. Finally, Mr. Oxenstierna spoke up again. "Vargas' is a nice café. They make good croissants." Francis would have cringed at the way Mr. Oxenstierna pronounced "croissants". Arthur almost did, too. "And they have much better…'bangers'. And mashed potatoes."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Oh…well, thank you for the recommendation. I'll be sure to check it out," but Mr. Oxenstierna was already walking off down the row of cubicles. Arthur checked the time again. 5:03. Eh, close enough. He procrastinated, taking 17 minutes to pack up his few belongings that traveled to work with him each day, and he was out of the office at 5:20 on the dot. Sweet, sweet freedom.

As soon as he got home from picking up Alfred, some spaghetti was thrown on the stove and Arthur hopped back onto the internet. Indeed, Vargas' had received some stellar ratings for its croissants—and apparently at very low prices as well. He was just about to laugh maniacally when the smoke detector went off, and he sprinted to the kitchen to scrape the charred spaghetti off the bottom of its pot.

* * *

"Which story this time?" Francis asked, leaning down to comb through the bookshelf. Mattie walked up to the selection, his face barely popping out from behind Kumajiro. Slowly and with care, he pointed to Barbapapa. "Barbapapa?" Francis asked. Mattie nodded. "_Oui, __Barbapapa__il est alors__!_"* Francis walked over to the bed, which Mattie had made that morning, and waited for him to undo his handiwork so it was just right before he went to sleep. The boy patted the spot for Francis to sit, and so he sat, opening the book and releasing the yummy smell of ink and paper. The scent curled and twisted through the air, intermingling with the scent of clean laundry and fresh sheets. Mattie snuggled under the covers and looked at the pictures with round eyes, never tiring of the funny round characters no matter how often the story was read to him. Kumajiro stared intently off into the distance.

Mattie repositioned the bear's head so Kumajoma could focus better.

"_Prêt à__commencer?_ Ready to begin?"

"_Oui, Papa._" It came out as barely a whisper, but Francis smiled and began to read.

"_Il était une fois__, __il y avait un__Barbapapa__…_"

His phone buzzed. Francis frowned, fishing it out of his pocket and checking the notifications. Matthew cocked his head, his equivalent of "Who is it?"

Francis chuckled. "_Ce est juste__Arthur__, __le papa de__Alfred__. __Rappelez-vous__de lui? _Remember him?" He slid the phone back into his pocket and started where he'd left off. "_Il a vécu__à_—"

_Buzzzzzzzzz._

His lips had curled into a grimace of frustration. "—_vécu__à Paris_—"

_Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz._

With a flip of the fingers, the phone was switched to Do Not Disturb and exiled to the nightstand, where it sat in silence for the rest of the story.

"_Vous semblez__vraiment comme__cette histoire__, __hmm__? _You really must like that story, Matthew," Francis observed as he got up.

"It's…Kumajoopjoop's favorite," Mattie explained.

"_C'est __le favori de __Kumajiro_?"

"Su…eh l-low favori de Kumajiro."

"_Oui! Trés bien!_" He grinned. Matthieu was so _smart. _Francis bent over to give him (and Kumajiro) a peck on the forehead, pulling the covers up until just under the tot's chin. "_Bonne nuit_, Matthieu." He collected his cell on the way out. The door shut with a barely audible _click_.

"Time to see what that pesky man is up to now," he mumbled to himself, opening up his messages while he walked to his room.

A: [Guess what!]

A: [I found the greatest restaurant.]

A: [It came up when I typed in "cheapest cafes near me", so I'm sure you'll LOVE it.]

A: [It's called Vargas'. And they serve your favorite, too—bangers and mash.]

_Well that was uncalled for, _Francis thought, but hey—it gave him an excuse to whip out a few scalding putdowns on the sucker, so why not?

Wait a second. He reread the last text, and couldn't keep himself from laughing. _Perfect. _

F: [Do we really have to? I know a much better place.]

A few minutes later, Arthur responded.

A: [Tough luck, frog.]

Hmmph. He didn't genuinely want him to change it—reverse psychology and whatnot—but that didn't mean the name-calling and rude demeanor weren't irritating. Whatever. He switched over to Tonio's chat.

F: [toni?]

T: [qué?]

F: [can you convince feliciano to remove "bangers and mash" from the café menu?]

* * *

The door chimed above their heads as he pushed on the glass, turning around to close the damp umbrella before stepping inside. Water droplets flew everywhere, spattering against the door. He tossed it into the umbrella stand by the front and walked up to the counter, Alfred dancing in circles around his legs and maneuvering Captain America through the display of indie CDs. He tapped him on the shoulder. "What do you want to eat, little man?"

Alfred jumped up and down, his height not enough to get his eyes over the edge of the counter. Arthur chuckled and took him under the shoulders, lifting him up to see the menu. "You good now?"

"Uh-huh! Ooh, they have cinnamon buns! Can I try a cinnamon bun? That looks suuuu-per yummy!" He squinted at the blackboard. "What's so-fo-glee-a-tell? Does it taste good?"

Over to the right, an employee with gorgeous skin uncharacteristic to the bleak London weather was beaming as he leaned over the counter to chat with a built man in glasses and slicked back hair. A newspaper lay perfectly folded next to his half-empty mug of coffee. The latter was blushing, shifting uncomfortably as bashfulness took over his features. But when Alfred mutilated the Italian name, the beautifully tanned employee swept over to the register, blowing a final kiss the customer's way before turning to face them.

"Are you asking about the _sfogliatelle_?" he asked with a smile. He had the weirdest strand of hair curling out from the side of his head, but he seemed like a nice person.

"Uh-huh! The so-fo-glee-a-tell-eh!" Alfred nodded, eyes wide.

"Oh, that one's good. It's one of my favorites in the whole café! You see, it has this super crispy crust and a bunch of layers, and it's brushed in melted butter and filled with this super yummy almond paste! Kind of like a French croissant—we have those too—but I think _sfogliatelle _are better. Here, I'll show you what it looks like, and you can decide for yourself, okay?"

"OK!" Alfred jumped out of Arthur's arms and ran over to the case, where the barista was pointing out the different sweets and delicacies. You would have thought that Arthur would be used to Alfred's reckless behavior by now, but he still let out a little yelp before realizing that his little boy was fine. Alfred's eyes were filled with delight, held rapt by the smorgasbord of sugar laid out before him. Arthur let out a deep sigh and focused on the list of teas. Earl gray, white, green, black, oolong, herbal…hmm. Maybe some Earl gray to match the weather. (Not his soul, mind you. Then he would have chosen black.)

"U-um, excuse me?" he asked weakly, but the barista—"Feliciano," according to his nametag—was still explaining the fineries of Italian pastry to Alfred. Defeated, he stood there awkwardly, arms crossed. He'd woken up this morning; he'd _known_ he wasn't good to talk to others today, but he hadn't listened, had he? Maybe Alfred would pick something soon and he could just pay for it and take him to meet his brother; he himself didn't have to order anything…

"OI. What you standing there for, hmm? You going to order something or no? Because you're holding up the line." (That was a lie. There was no line.)

Arthur jumped. "Oh—I, I was just trying to order a-an earl gra—"

"Lovi! It's not like you to lash out at people you don't know yet!" A guy with messy brown hair and a sparkling smile slid in, throwing his arm around the employee's shoulder. "What did this man do to you—" He looked up to see who "Lovi" was tormenting, and stopped, his grin faltering for a second. "Ay-ay-ay," he mumbled. "_Un momento, por favor,_" he said, and he and Lovi chatted for a few seconds, muttering in a language Arthur couldn't understand.

"_¿Porqué te me tiras encima, hijo de puta? Estaba haciendo un buen trabajo, idiota. ¿Es él, no? Tiene las cejas y el feo chaleco y todo, justo como Francis dijo. Ahora va a sospechar. _[Why'd you pull me over, bastard? I was doing a good job, you jerk! He's the one, right? He's got the eyebrows and the ugly sweater vest and everything, just like Francis said. Now he'll be suspicious!]"

"_Ciertamente, se parece. De acuerdo, déjame ver con Francis. Tú sigue adelante, como él te dijo. _[He certainly looks like it. Okay, let me go check with Francis. You just keep going like he told you to.]" With that, their conversation ended, and the grumpy attendant returned to the counter. Arthur stood, more than a little uncomfortable, while the barista stared at him. Alfred and Feliciano were still blissfully unaware of the situation, their minds off somewhere in candyland.

"Well? You gonna order or not? I got stuff to do besides stand here all day!" he growled. "Lovino" scowled at him while he sputtered with his words.

"Um, well, I wanted to order a medium Earl gray tea, and, uh—Alfred?"

The little one and Feliciano looked up from the display case. "Yeah, Dad?" Alfred asked.

"It's time to order. What do you want to eat?"

Alfred ran over, jumping up and down. "They all look so good! Can I get one of each?"

"'m afraid that's one too many, Alfred. Was there one in particular you liked?"

Alfred peered back over at Feliciano. "I want the so-fo-glee-a-tell-eh!" he said enthusiastically.

"Okay, that's one sfogliatella," Arthur said to Lovino, stumbling over the foreign pronunciation.

"You say it _sfogliatella,_" he replied. "Anything else?"

"Uh, I heard somewhere that you serve bangers and mash?"

"That sounds disgusting. I would never serve something like that in my café. Now are you done or not?"

"I…I suppose in that case I'll have a plain croissant?" How was the café still in business with a man this impertinent and rude running it?

"Coming up. You can go stand over there, or whatever. I don't care," he said, gesturing wildly in some random direction.

"…Right." Arthur took Alfred's hand and walked into the middle of the room, looking for Francis and Matthew. He would almost rather talk to the smelly Frenchman than deal with that awful barista. After a good bit of tripping over laptop bags and silent cursing, he found his way over to where Francis and Matthew were sitting, the little one already munching on a croissant. The brothers immediately hugged, Alfred showing off his new toy and Mattie orchestrating Kumajiro's reaction. The two ran off to the corner, where a little kids' corner of second hand toys had been set up a few months prior.

And there, across the table, was Francis. He was chatting with some albino in an armchair, a book splayed across the stranger's thigh. The title looked like something German…Kant? Hmm. Philosophy. Interesting.

Francis had already noticed Arthur's entrance. In fact, that was exactly what he and Gil were chatting about.

"Look, the loser's headed over this way," Gil remarked, gesturing vaguely so their target didn't know who they were talking about.

"Didn't I tell you? Wasn't I right?" Francis said, twirling a strand of hair around his finger.

"You were right about the eyebrows, that's for sure. And the sweater vest is worse than anything I've ever seen West wear." He laughed. "Now that's saying something."

"He has the fashion sense of a grade-school librarian. See what I have to look at every time we meet up?"

"I wish I couldn't, but his clothes are making me go blind anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem for much longer."

"And his manners are even worse. I told you what he said about the French when we met for the first time, right?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Like, 10 times. Doesn't make it any less painful, though."

"The man's ridiculous. Some sort of cross between socially awkward and insufferably arrogant."

"_Er klingt wie ein totaler Scheißkerl,_ Franny.** I almost hoped you were exaggerating when you described him."

"Sadly, no. Watch," he whispered, turning towards Arthur, who had just sat down and cleared his throat. His legs were crossed and his nose upturned with an air of superiority.

"_Salut_, Arthur," Francis said.

"Morning, Francis. Why don't you speak to me in a language I actually understand, hmm?" Arthur replied. Gilbert giggled, already knowing what Francis was going to respond with.

Francis snorted an elegant snort. "If you didn't understand the language, then why did you reply with the correct greeting?"

"It's called having manners. You wouldn't know," Arthur said. "Besides, ever heard of a little thing called 'social cues'?"

He rolled his eyes. "This again? Aren't you going to be more polite in front of my friend here?"

"Don't think I didn't see you gossiping about me before I came over here. I'll bet you've fed him dozens of lies about me already."

Gilbert held in a chuckle while Francis said, "Please, we have better things to talk about than _you._"

"Hmmph. I would hope so; the last thing I want is you running your mouth behind my back." Next to him, Feliciano was delivering their order. A fresh, crispy sfogliatelle was slid in front of Alfred's place at the table. He tore off a huge piece between his teeth and chewed greedily.

"Woooooow, it's so _good!_" His blue eyes lit up.

"And what do we say to Mr. Feliciano?" Arthur prompted.

"Thank you, Feliciano!" Alfred said, his mouth full. At least he got it half-right.

"You're welcome! And please, just call me Feli, okay?" he replied with a smile.

"Okay, Feli!" Feliciano's smile grew even wider, and he began to walk back toward the kitchen.

"Oh! Um, excuse me?" Arthur called out.

"Hmm? Is there a problem?" Feliciano turned around.

"I believe I ordered an earl gray tea and a croissant?"

He brought his hand up to his mouth. "Oh! I'm so sorry! My brother must have left it out of the order. I'll go get it right away, sir!" And with that he scrambled back off to the kitchen.

"Are you sure it was a good idea not to tell him what we were doing?" Gilbert whispered, eyes wary.

"He's too nice, there's no way he would have done this to someone he'd just met," Francis replied. Arthur watched them, uncomfortable. I mean, arguing with Francis wasn't exactly his idea of a good time, but it was better than sitting awkwardly in a chair with nothing to do. Maybe he should just read or something. There was a bookshelf a little ways back, he could probably find something…

"Franny! He's getting up!" Gilbert hissed. Francis reacted quickly.

"Where are you going, Arthur?" he cooed.

"I figured I would get a book, since you weren't talking to me," he replied. His mouth twisted into an irked scowl.

"Oh-ho, so you would rather I talk to you? That's so sweet!" He and Gilbert laughed.

His face flushed. It was true, whether he liked it or not—but not in the way Francis was implying. "W-why would I want to talk to someone who accuses me of something so disgusting? Absolutely not!"

Francis gasped, turning to Gilbert. "Did you see that?"

"He blushed!"

He turned back to Arthur. "_Oh mon dieu,_ I was right! You really _do!_"

"I-I—what?! Are you bloody_ insane?_"

"That's so sweet! Oh, but we've only known each other for a few weeks. What should I do with this new information, Gilbert?" Francis had the whitest grin on, face filled with delight (and possibly malicious intent).

"You blinking imbecile! You think I have some sort of petty schoolgirl crush on you? That only proves how self-centered and conceited you are, thinking anyone in their right mind will fall in love with your exterior! It's no wonder you French people have such rotten personalities; you spend so much time fussing over your external appearance you never bother to cultivate what's on the inside!" Flames were practically dancing in his eyes, and his face grew ever redder.

"Hmmph. Sounds like something someone in denial of true love would say," Francis purred, spurring him on. Gilbert was in his chair, holding his hand to his chest. He turned to his friend, worry crossing his features. "Gil, are you okay?"

"Hmm? Yeah, fine, you just made me laugh so hard is all." As if to prove his point, he let out a cackle, but it was overtaken by a coughing fit.

Maybe he was choking on the smoke coming out of Arthur's ears.

While Francis had been preoccupied with tormenting the stuffy man, the boys had snuck up unbeknownst and listened in on God knows how much of the conversation. But apparently they'd heard enough, because now Alfred was excitedly yelling "Daddy likes Francis? Daddy likes Francis! Wow, Mattie our dads are gonna get married!" The dad in question was standing in stunned silence, and a few people sitting nearby had noticed by now, too.

He snapped out of it and clapped a hand over Alfred's mouth, bending down into a crouching position and taking him by the shoulders. "Alfred! That is not an appropriate thing to be yelling out in a public place, understood? You can't believe everything you hear and then go announcing it to the rest of the world," he chided in a stern whisper. It was obvious he was trying to keep his temper under control. It was also obvious that it wasn't working.

Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Lovino heading over to the table with the croissant—and the tea.

The tea he was supposed to make extra hot so Arthur would burn his tongue.

What Francis and Lovino didn't see was Arthur, who was still crouching down behind the table and talking to his son.

In what seemed like slow motion, Lovino got closer and closer to the table. And then Arthur rose up from where he had been hidden. The barista's foot slipped, his senses startled by the sudden appearance of the customer, and the tea flew off the serving platter and curved in a graceful arc until landing smack dab in the middle of Arthur's ugly argyle sweater vest.

Now, it wasn't a stain that was the problem—tea is really just water with a few leaves sprinkled in for flavor. The trouble was more that the leaf-and-water mixture was scalding hot, and now it was making contact with Arthur's skin.

Arthur and Lovino shrieked, almost achieving perfect synchronization. The platter was thrown onto the table and Arthur bent down immediately to make sure Alfred hadn't been hurt. It was about 3 seconds later when he realized there was scalding water soaking into his shirt, and he grabbed at the fabric wildly. Not that it was helping.

Antonio burst into the room. "_¿__Qué demonios está pasando aquí? _[What the hell is going on in here?]" He turned to Lovino. "Ay! Is he burned?"

"_¡__No sé__, __el hijo de puta __apareció__de la nada__! _[I don't know, the bastard popped up out of nowhere!]"

Toni turned to Francis for a second, looking confused. _Did you do this?_ Francis just shook his head. He himself was quite a bit shocked at the sudden turn of events. Antonio spun on his heel, running over to the sink to get a cold paper towel. He returned, handing it tentatively to a completely livid Arthur. It was snatched away and applied briefly, but the tea had cooled enough at this point that it was no longer a problem. He stood up, marched over to the trashcan to dispose of it, and picked up Alfred. "You two will see each other soon, okay?" he explained to the brothers before stalking out of the café. Mattie waved goodbye, then looked up at his papa, unsure of what to do.

Francis, Antonio and Gilbert watched the door swing shut. Rain found its way in, adding to the rapidly growing puddles by the entrance.

"Was he _really_ that bad? I mean, I get that he might not be the most sociable guy on the planet, but…" Antonio trailed off. He'd gotten a mop from who-knows-where and began cleaning up. Lovino ran off to fetch more paper towels.

Francis ran a hand through his styled hair. It fell back into place, reflecting the weak ambient lighting from the inset bulbs in the ceiling. "I was planning on making his life slightly more miserable, not completely ruin his day. I almost feel bad for the man and his awful wardrobe." Finally he noticed Mattie, whom he coaxed over with a finger and lifted up onto his lap.

Gilbert glanced over at the croissant, laying lukewarm and alone in the center of the table. "Well, if he didn't hate you before…he sure does now."

* * *

*"Barbapapa it is then!" (translated literally from English to French)

** "He sounds like a total male bitch, Franny."

* * *

**Well. This was way longer than I was planning on. 4,392 words. (Although I bet if I got rid of all the initials in front of the texts, it would go way down.) I keep thinking about all the cute scenes that are coming up later in the story, and then I run out of ways to get the plot there without making it seem rushed (if that makes any sense).**

**I'm really sorry I updated so late. The next chapter will be out next Sunday, like usual. As for Ludwig's Daycare, I didn't get a chance to work on it much this week, but what I did get done is...interesting.**

**Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review!**


	6. Dinner and a Movie

**After the first horizontal line, there's a scene in which Arthur has a moderate anxiety attack. If this will trigger you, the summary is that Arthur has anxiety attacks, he has special tea for them, Kiku couldn't go out for drinks, and Alfred cares more than you think.**

**Stay safe.**

* * *

"C'mon, Mattie, try one! They're _good!_"

Matthew stared down at the bread-colored rock.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeease? I promise!"

He took it in his pudgy little hands and examined the specimen from all sides. The bottom was completely black, burnt to a crisp. Mattie began picking off the charred bits with care.

"Uggggggggghhhhhhhh. You're taking too long! Just try one already!" Alfred broke off a piece of his scone and shoved it into Mattie's mouth. The little one's eyes watered as he chewed it and choked it down. Mattie grabbed at his tongue. As hard as he tried, he just couldn't scrub the little bits of charcoal out of his taste buds.

"Did you like it?" Alfred asked. He was oblivious to Mattie's suffering. He was already scarfing down another one from the lunchbox next to him.

Matthew shook his head.

Alfred shrugged. "Whatever. More for me!" he said, taking back the small pile he'd dumped in front of his brother.

Francis looked on from a few meters away in disgust. "You've ruined him. Look at that poor child. He's gobbling them up like they're Swiss chocolates."

Arthur's arms sat firmly crossed across his chest. Francis had promised not to bring any boiling drinks with him, but he didn't trust that man as far as he could throw him. Which wasn't far. Hey, Arthur had an office job. It's not known for its health benefits. His biceps were barely the width of the pencil he scribbled down notes with. But I digress.

"They're called baked _goods _for a reason. If he likes them, then who are you to complain?" Arthur replied. Hopefully Francis didn't reply with anything clever. He'd just spent his witty comeback for the day.

"If the name is 'baked goods', then your scones certainly do not belong under that category," Francis said. Alfred stuffed another scone into his mouth and crumbs flew everywhere, settling in his lap and distributing themselves evenly over the picnic blanket. Francis cringed.

"I rather enjoy baking anyway, it's relaxing."

"What's relaxing about trying to put out an oven fire?"

"Shut it, divvy."

The twins were talking, babbling in their respective second languages. Mattie whispered something indecipherable in French, and Alfred yelled something along the lines of "ESCUELA DE ESTRELLA" back in Spanish. The countless hours spent watching Dora must have been paying off.

Alfred crammed another scone into his mouth. Crumbs spewed from his mouth while he talked.

Another one down the hatch.

And another.

Francis felt a little sick to his stomach.

"Ok, that's it," he said, bringing both hands down on the bench. The boards rattled, and Arthur's head whipped over to Francis. "Heavens," he muttered.

"I'm sick of seeing this poor child ingest nothing but burnt bread. The next time we meet it will be at my apartment and you two will be tasting _real _food."

"I-I don't—"

"_Chut! _[Shush!] No 'I beg your pardon' nonsense from you. On Friday at 8 you will bring Alfred to my house and at the very least _he _will sit at my table and eat my dinner. Understand?"

Arthur glared at the idiot, sat as far as possible on the other side of the bench as he could without falling off. Francis stared back, a gleam of determination in his eye and the most_ irritating _smile a ghost on his face. He still had that…scrubby, stubbly beard. There was a word for it, but it was escaping him at the moment.

He stiffened and lifted his back away from the bench. "Fine. I'll drop him off, but I'll be heading straight back to my house as soon as I do, understood?"

Francis' smile blossomed into a grin. "Good choice. Will Alfred be staying the night?"

Arthur deliberated over this. He shrugged. "I'd be silly to turn down an offer for a free babysitter. Maybe I can finally go out with all my friends again." He said the last part like it was supposed to be some sort of surprise that he had friends to go out with.

Francis saw the opportunity and took it. "What friends?"

"Uh—well, there are my…that is to say, I have brothers…" Nope. Not going to go there. Not going to pour his heart out to this guy. He racked his brain for something else. "I have a friend—Kiku, from uni." His voice regained confidence. "W-we had the same seminar in calculus, and shared an apartment for a time. We bonded over our mutual love of tea."

The bastard cocked an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yup. We still hang out together, sometimes. I remember he was my best…friend back then…" He also remembered the feeling of emptiness and longing whenever his "friend" wasn't around. "He…ahem." Arthur looked away.

_His face is falling…_Francis noticed. _Does he seriously not have any friends to go out with on a Friday night?_

"So you're going to go out drinking alone."

"I think I deserve a little time to myself!" he argued.

Francis sighed. He stretched, laid his back against the bench, the boards creaking. "I've known you for what—3 months now? And though I've never seen you drink, I get the feeling you aren't exactly the most…if I had to guess, I'd say you're alcohol tolerance is pretty low. Are you sure it's a good idea for you to go out alone?"

"Oh. Oh-ho, so you're _worried _about me. And what business is it of yours?" He tensed up. He looked poised to leap off the bench, his face was heating up, the blood in his veins pumped furiously. Suddenly Francis was scared.

"Uh…none. I just don't want Alfred to end up without a father, is all."

Right. He didn't care about him. That much was mutual.

"You…you can sit down now," Francis added. Arthur looked down at his feet and fell back onto the bench. Minutes of silence passed before Francis glanced at his watch: 17:09. He glanced at Arthur, too. The man's face was turned away while he tried to mask his emotions. It wasn't working.

"Matthieu? _Allons-y_. Time to go, _petit ours,_" he called.

"Aw, maaaan," Alfred whined. "A little longer?"

He walked over to the two boys and bent down, ruffling Alfred's hair. "You'll see each other on Friday for a sleepover at our house, okay?" he told Al with a smile.

"Woah, really? Awesome! Thanks, Francis!"

"_De rien_. It's nothing. Just prepare yourself to taste some of the finest cooking you'll ever experience!" His hands fluttered about in a flourish.

"Even better than Daddy's scones?" he asked, bewildered.

He grimaced. "Yes, Alfred. Much, much better."

"Wow. That must be really good," the little one replied.

"_Salut, _Alfred, Arthur. Say goodbye, Matthieu." He took his son's hand and got up from the blanket.

"_Salut_," Mattie whispered, waving to his brother.

"_Adios! _That's Spanish for bye-bye!" Alfred yelled, waving his arm frantically.

Arthur was still on the bench, staring at nothing.

* * *

When he got home, Arthur thought maybe it was high time he texted Kiku again. With Alfred getting back just in time for Dora at 17:30, he was guaranteed not move for the next hour, and that left Arthur plenty of time to futz around with the computer. In a moment of weakness, he logged onto his online dating profile…but there were no notifications, and he always felt like such a loser for checking.

Francis had a new girlfriend every week.

Ugh. He snapped the laptop shut and tried to think of something to text Kiku. Actually, why not just invite him out on Friday? Maybe he could bring along a friend and Arthur would get to know someone new for a change.

A: [Would you like to go out for drinks on Friday?]

That damn fox stole something and the living room burst into a cacophony of "SWIPER NO SWIPING!" Arthur jumped and snatched the remote, turning the volume down a notch or two (or twenty). His phone screen had lit up during the mayhem; Kiku had replied with surprising speed.

He unlocked the message.

K: [My apologies, I'm visiting my family in Japan for the cherry blossom festival. Perhaps we can meet some other time?]

K: [Besides, don't you have to take care of Alfred?]

Crap. He shut off the phone without replying, a terrible habit of his. (Maybe _that's _why he had no friends.) As much as he didn't want to admit it, Francis was aggravatingly perceptive, and completely accurate in his prediction of his alcohol tolerance. He looked over at his son, held rapt by the TV. What was he _thinking? _He had a son now! He couldn't just run off and get drunk in some alley whenever things didn't go his way. This child needed him to be there in case of anything, and here he was ready to sneak off to some bar in search of comfort in the form of cheap scotch. What kind of a role model was that setting for his little man? He had done everything, fixed everything to turn it all around, make himself fit for parenting, and he was about to give all that up for some _shady bar_? Nice bloody job, Arthur.

He felt his palms sweating and knew he had gone too far. Breathing shaky, he got up from the couch, pecked Alfred on the head without him noticing, and hurried over to the kitchen. Arthur steadied himself on the countertop with one arm while filling up the teapot and placing it on the stove. The kettle clattered against the coils from his trembling hands, and the ugly sound rattled his nerves. Panic was tearing through his spine while he sifted through the cupboard, focused on nothing but finding the special tea he was supposed to use. He missed it three times before finally grabbing the right one and dumping it into the pot.

The kettle was barely whistling when he snatched it off its burner and poured the steaming water into his mug. Tucking his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, he used the ends as pot holders and wrapped them around the mug, shuffling at a turtle's pace into his room. The rainy noise was switched on, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and the bed was cozy and disheveled. His guitar sat in the corner, still hooked up to all its amplifiers, left leaning against a speaker after yesterday's practice. He sat down, blew over the surface of the tea, and took a careful sip.

The temperature was perfect, and he could feel his muscles loosing their tension as he listened to the sounds of his home in Manchester, the small apartment the university gave them. Unbeknownst to him, real rain had started pattering against the windows again, and long after he'd fallen asleep, little Alfred had left his show early to come curl up next to his father.

* * *

_Knock-knock-knock._

"Oh! Matthieu! _Les __Kirkland __sont __ici! __Venez __dire salut à __Alfred__!_ [The Kirklands are here! Come say hi to Alfred!]" Francis called down the hall. Soon Mattie's little feet were padding down the hall, Kumajiro in tow. He toddled up to the door, opening it up and hugging Alfred as soon as he saw him.

"_Hola_, Mattie!"

"_Salut, _Alfred."

Francis walked around to the other side of the door, the side opposite the hinges. "Why don't you two go play in Matthieu's room while I finish dinner, okay? How does that sound?"

"Oh yeah! Mattie, bro, show me your room!" Alfred said enthusiastically.

Mattie nodded and ran back down the hall, this time followed by his brother. They disappeared around the corner into his bedroom. The clatter of fake pans and pots against a plastic stove rang out from behind the door within a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, Francis walked over to the real stove and started stirring something around in a skillet.

Arthur remained in the doorway. Eventually he took it upon himself to close the door and hang up his coat, but beyond that he was completely at a loss. He wandered tentatively into the living room; if Francis noticed, he didn't say anything.

The pristine white couch was exquisitely clean, for someone with a pre-kindergartener living in the house. There was elegant gold trim adorning the frame of a portrait of a young girl, who was smiling amidst a reddish backdrop. Knick-knacks were arranged artistically on the mantelpiece, vases of potpourri acted as bookends on the shelf, and the glass-topped coffee table had a single rose sat in the center next to a few choice French fashion and interior decorating magazines. He settled down onto the couch, thinking maybe he should have taken off his shoes, but afraid to go back and do so. (What was the French custom when it came to shoes indoors? Was there a custom in the first place?) Eventually he decided either way would piss off Francis, so he just left them on.

Humming started up from the kitchen.

"_Dites-moi d'où il vient, enfin je serais où je vais, maman dis que lorsqu'on cherche bien, on finit toujours par trouver…"_

He had a really lovely voice.

"_Elle dit qu'il n'est jamais très loin, qu'il part très souvent travailler, maman dit travailler c'est bien, bien mieux qu'être mal accompagné. Pas vrai?_"

Should he let Francis know he was here? Did Francis know he was here? Or was he just messing with him?

"_Où est ton papa? Dis moi où est ton papa! Sans même devoir lui parler, il sait ce qu'il ne va pas. Hein sacré papa! Dis moi où es-tu caché! Ça doit...Faire au moins mille fois que j'ai, compté mes doigts. Hé!_"*

Arthur waited for the chorus to kick in. It never came.

"You must enjoy my singing, not to have spoken up through the entire first verse. The bridge, too!"

Arthur jumped. Francis sidled up to the side of the sofa. Some of his bangs fell out of his ponytail and framed his face when he leaned over.

His singing was pretty. But why would he tell him that? "What exactly are you doing?" he asked.

Francis straightened back up again, smiling. "No need to sound so accusative! I was merely wondering if you liked my singing, or is that such a terrible thing to ask?"

"I was surprised that you would even start, considering I was in the room. That's why I didn't say anything." _That much is true, _he thought to himself.

Francis began to—was that a _pout?_ Good lord. "I tend to sing to myself in the kitchen. I think I'll turn on the radio, though. Any favorites?" There was a malicious glint in his eye.

"Hmmm…" Ha! He knew exactly what he was up to. "Something relaxing, please. R&amp;B, maybe."

Francis headed over to the radio. "Is that so…" He fiddled with the knob, stopping on the rock station. A grin was thrown his way. "Enjoy!"

Arthur tried to look disappointed. The Beatles were in the middle of A Hard Day's Night, edgy guitar floating through the room.

Perfect.

Nirvana had already taken over when Francis added, "I have a girlfriend, you know."

"I'm not surprised. Is this the same one from last Saturday, or did you move on already?" The sarcasm stung, but not as much as the truth hidden behind it.

Nobody but the radio announcer said a word for a long time after that.

* * *

The kids had been called to dinner, Alfred pulling Arthur into a seat before he could resist, and they ate ferociously. He couldn't remember the exact name of whatever Francis had prepared, but it was surprisingly delicious. (In Arthur's opinion, anyway.) Francis neglected his portion, watching the two shovel down their meal with joy ingrained in every part of his face. The two were then ushered into the bath, and from there into their respective beds. (An air mattress and sleeping bag had been prepared for Alfred in the interim.)

Finally the two were taken care of, left to talk to each other in whispers while the adults pretended not to hear. Francis was just settling down on the couch with a small bowl of popcorn (with olive oil substituted for butter, because who needs more fat?) when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. The flicker of a dull green raincoat sleeve repeated itself, over and over. Whomever it belonged to was having one hell of a time getting it on.

"Leaving so soon?" he said as he twisted around to look at Arthur standing by the door, sarcasm leaking into his voice.

"Not like I'd want to stick around this froofy place any longer than I have to," he retorted, finally pulling his other arm through its respective sleeve.

"You stuck around long enough to pig out on my fine dining," Francis pointed out.

"What sort of idiot turns down a free meal? Even if it is drizzled with ridiculous amounts of unnecessary sauces. You know, running a fork through a puddle of barely edible liquid doesn't automatically make it artsy. Or appetizing, for that matter."

"Ha! As if you're one to judge fine cuisine. Those 'unnecessary sauces' didn't stop you from inhaling the whole plate."

"Oi, you gave it to me without even asking if I wanted any first. What was I supposed to do?"

"You had already taken a seat at the table, I assumed you wanted to eat, and I wasn't about to starve poor Alfred's papa. Or at least not in front of him."

"…Whatever. I have better things to do than argue here with you about table etiquette," Arthur said. His face was slowly growing hot, because the truth was, he didn't. He was driving home to an empty apartment with only a bottle of scotch for company.

"I couldn't care less," Francis said, and turned back around to switch on the TV. The selection screen came up, and he navigated through the menus to Jacques Tati's _Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot._

An English accent piped up from the entryway. "Hold on. You're watching a _French film? _That thing's in black and white, for Christ's sake."

"You're still here?" Francis responded unenthusiastically.

"Are you a fan of the cinema or something? No one else would watch a film that old." Was that intended as an insult? Francis had no idea. For that matter, Arthur wasn't sure either.

"The French _invented _film. _Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage. _Of course I enjoy my country's superior cinema culture."

"Don't insult me in a language I can't understand, that's just cowardly. And might I add that Doctor Who is an international sensation, whereas I have never heard of whatever this fossil is. Just because you invented film doesn't mean you're any good at it."

"It means 'you have the brain of a cheese sandwich'. And the only reason Doctor Who is so successful is because they keep making up plot points that prevent the show from ever ending; it's tiring. Maybe if you weren't so proud of your silly rainy country, you could open up that thick skull of yours and appreciate a _real _movie."

"That makes absolutely no sense. Might I add that Doctor Who is science fiction, that's how the genre _works_. Besides, who would ever want Doctor Who to end? And I'll keep my skull closed to your bloody film, thank you very much, lest it be contaminated with overpriced cheese fumes and turn me into someone as ridiculous and bugger-headed as you."

"I guess it doesn't translate. _I _would want Doctor Who to end, because I've been living in London for a year and I haven't seen a single blue phone booth; the show is so inaccurate it can't even get the color of its own country's phone booths correct. And I wouldn't want you to watch it with me anyway, you'd probably just make a bunch of sarcastic comments and eat all my food. _Again._"

"It's a _police box, _you uncultured—" Arthur froze for a second, making a face like he was thinking (although I really doubt it), before yanking off his jacket and tossing it in the general direction of the coat closet. "Huh! You wouldn't, would you? Looks like it's your lucky day, chap," he said, plopping down on the couch with his arms crossed defiantly.

"Oh—oh. Oh. Oh, wow, very mature," Francis said, realizing what he was doing. The teensy bowl of popcorn was tossed around, and the sofa cushions shifted uncomfortably. "Your cleverness never ceases to astound me," Francis said dryly. He was taken aback, but trying not to let it show. Honestly, he had just been bored earlier. The feisty little Brit wasn't actually taking it seriously, was he?

Arthur looked at him. "And? Are you going to start the flick or what?"

Francis looked back. "You. Are _so_ annoying." With that, he grabbed the remote and began the film with a flick of the wrist.

It wasn't long before Arthur piped up.

"_M. __Hulot __est__à pied pour une __se maine __par la mer__. __Prenez un __siège der rière__sa caméra__, __et vous pouvez passer __avec lui__—_"

"Are there no bloody subtitles?"

"_Chut!_ Of course not, this is my first language. Now be quiet," Francis replied.

The movie was mostly wordless, a sort of visual comedy, but that didn't keep Arthur from complaining every time a word of dialogue was spoken. Eventually Francis gave up and translated the words, however few and far apart they may be, whenever they popped up. He'd been right about Arthur making sarcastic comments, too—they traded insults every 5 minutes, almost paying more attention to each other than the film itself. But at least Arthur didn't eat his popcorn. Apparently olive oil wasn't good enough for him, the pig.

The movie was only 86 minutes long, but by the time they hit the 70 minute mark, and Hulot was causing one final catastrophe, Arthur felt his eyelids drooping and vision getting heavy. He shifted to rest his head against the arm of the sofa, and the last thing he saw before he drifted off to sleep was that stupid, stubbly chin.

His eyes closed, and he finally found the word to describe it: sexy.

_Fuck._

* * *

* This song is called Papaoutai, by Stromae. However, Pentatonix did a cover of it that was flipping amazing and I highly suggest you listen to both.

* * *

**This chapter ended up moving a lot faster than I wanted it to, but I didn't know how to emphasize any more that they hate each other. **

**Also, to anyone who sent reviews-ravengal especially-I'm really sorry for not having replied yet. I did read them, and I love that I'm getting so much feedback, I've just been fairly busy lately. I promise I'll get to them, though!**

**As always-thank you for reading, and be sure to review! Next chapter next Sunday.**


	7. You Go, Glen Coco!

His knuckles rapped on the door.

_Knock-knock-knock._

The hinges squealed a little as the door swung open, as piece-by-piece his face came into view. A strand of hair, the sharp curve of his jaw, one eye, his lips, a stubbly chin, that nose, the other eye, his jawline curving back up to meet with his ear, more hair tucked behind it. There it was. But how did it make him _feel?_

Arthur focused on that face as Francis bent down to hug Alfred and say hello. It was quite beautiful, that was for sure. There was no denying him being handsome. But a man can look at a man and deem him handsome without it meaning _that_.

The two boys' footsteps echoed down the hall as they scampered into Mattie's room. Alfred's sock slipped and he spun and slid into the wall with a _thump_, but was laughing and back on his feet before Arthur could reprimand him.

"So. Are you going to eat my food and criticize my taste in movies again, or what?" Francis asked.

He'd been so focused on his looks he'd almost forgotten how much he _despised_ the prat.

"N-no, thank you very much, I'd much rather go home and read a novel I've been meaning to finish," Arthur replied, keeping his head up.

Francis leaned on one leg and placed his hand on his hip. "Really, now? Do tell me what the title of this fantastic book may be."

Caught in the lie. "Ehh…ah, I can't quite think of the name at the moment…"

He cocked an eyebrow. It was aggravating. Aggravatingly good-looking. Jesus Christ.

"How convenient," Francis said, smiling.

"Oh, shut it. I'm sure there's a Doctor Who episode airing or something. Maybe Sherlock." He turned back towards the door, away from that face. He didn't want to look at it anymore.

"Fine by me." Francis headed over towards the kitchen, putting a saucepan on the stove and adding a few drips of olive oil before switching on the burner. You know, he could have been fun, for a fling at least. But he'd made it clear he wasn't interested. What a shame.

Although maybe it was better not to break the heart of Alfred's papa.

Alfred's papa was already out the door, furiously suppressing a heart that had been broken for a long, long time.

* * *

Pfft. Francis had his cheek leaned delicately on his fist, his gaze staring blankly at the text document on his laptop screen.

He really hated computers.* But his editor had insisted he type up all his chapters into a file so they could e-mail and edit his writing faster. It was a hassle, but he would rather leave the house in Crocs than switch her out for someone else. She was brilliant. His writing's quality increased ten-fold with every one of her harsh, vicious criticisms.

His phone buzzed from where it lay on top of his open notebook, filled with scribbles about plot points and important details and twists and turns and the pros and cons of killing off the romantic lead. He reached for it, opened the screen.

"Elise Vogel" read the display. Elise? It'd been a while since he'd heard from her.

E: hi, francis! natalya and i were free this weekend, and we wanted to know if you would like to get together and chat again?

Hmm.

F: how about something along the lines of a sunday afternoon tea?

E: that would be great! i'll tell natalya.

E: speaking of which…how are things between you and amara going?

He cringed. Poor Amara.

F: we cut things off a while ago. it didn't end well

E: oh, i'm so sorry!

E: have you found someone new yet?

Damn. She knew him well.

F: well there was a GORGEOUS man on the subway the other day, but i'm pretty sure he was straight

F: assuming from how he responded to my flirting

E: …what about that arthur?

She couldn't be serious.

F: are you KIDDING ME? omg, he drives me insane. i can't stand that man

E: are you telling me you haven't even tried him yet?

F: all signs point to straight. i even twirled my hair around my finger, the whole leaning-over-the-couch-arm-seductively speil.

F: nothing. he just recoiled and asked me what on earth i was up to

E: maybe he's just clueless. men tend to be like that

E: i mean, he's kinda cute. he doesn't seem like your type but i could see things working out between you two

E: people thought the same with natalya and me, that we were polar opposites and that we'd never make it together, but now we're married and laughing in their faces

F: aRE YOU SUGGESTING I WOULD EVER MARRY THAT SCONE-INGESTING SHERLOCK LUNATIC

F: EWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEW

F: excuse me while i go wash my mind clean of those awful thoughts

E: fine! but he's one of very few people you've seen for months now and haven't made out with

F: wow

F: words can hurt too, elise

F: wORDS CAN HURT TOO

E: i'll see you sunday at 4?

F: only if we go to vargas'

E: they sell swiss chocolate there. of course i approve.

F: see you then!

It wasn't like the idea hadn't occurred to him before. His little display had proven that. But Arthur flat-out rejecting him was more than enough of a turn-off.

Was he even cute? Francis pictured him in his mind: thick eyebrows, round face, messy dirty-blonde hair, green eyes. Rosy cheeks.

Actually, now that he thought about it, Arthur bore a terribly strong resemblance to his book's romantic lead.

He immediately scrawled down a note to himself to kill off the character ASAP.

* * *

"DA-AAADDDY! MATTIE AND FRANCIS ARE SKYPING!"

Arthur got up from his armchair with a sigh, and, laying the morning's paper across the seat, hurried over to Alfred's room. He was laying on his stomach on his rumpled bedsheets, legs kicking in the air, phone turned sideways in front of him. Dolls and stuffed animals and little toy trains littered the ground, a track winding through the legs of his bed and bridges stretching over the bump where the carpet met the floor.

"Hola, Mattie! I learned how to say 'I think cake is delicious'! Wanna hear?"

Mattie's voice was distorted by the tinny noise of the phone speakers. "_D'accord_."

In the background, Francis translated with a laugh. "That means 'okay'."

"_Creo que el pastel es delicioso._ Isn't that awesome?"

"I think I can say that too. _Je pense…que le gâteau est…délicieux?_"

"_Oui! Tres bien,_" Francis confirmed.

Arthur, who had been standing in the doorframe, walked over to the bed and sat down. He tried to smooth out the covers—he'd told Alfred to make his bed this morning, as if that would actually do anything. Eventually he quit fiddling with the sheets and moved his head into the frame.

"Daddy's here! Say hi, Daddy!" Alfred said enthusiastically.

"Hello, Matthew, Francis. Good to see you," he said with a wave. Francis looked flawless, as usual.

He must put a lot of time into his appearance. How vain.

"Did you like the book we were reading in school? The Little Prince? I thought it was really cool! And I want to ride in a spaceship like he did," Alfred continued. Mattie replied with his own answer, and orchestrated Kumajiro's paws so he could express his opinion too. The two nattered on, their dialogue slowly fading out of Arthur's conscience. Arthur never had much to say during these conversations. The Skype calls really were for the boys; he wasn't supposed to add anything, really.

To no one's surprise, Alfred did a lot of the talking. Mattie, on the other hand, was an introvert, like Arthur. They might get along well, in that not-speaking-but-content-with-each-others'-company sort of way.

Arthur's eyes drifted over to the bookshelf. It was already filled with books and miscellaneous toys and trinkets: a few classics Alfred would never read, some Captain America and Avenger's comics they'd found at the library's book sale a couple months back, an array of chapter book series about time-traveling treehouses and crime-solving 10-year-olds. But no Bible. It looked odd, a bookshelf without a Bible. Vacant.

There was one in his bedroom, though. Maybe someday they would read it together.

"I liked drawing the little prince the best. I gave him a cape so he'd look all hero-y and stuff."

"Did you really? Show me!" Francis interjected.

"OK! One sec," Alfred said and ran off into the hall. The phone fell over, the view on the Bonnefoy's end switching to a blank ceiling. Arthur snatched it back up quickly and leaned it against the back of the bed.

"I made one too! I'll go get it," Matthew said, hopping off of his papa's lap.

Arthur and Francis were left alone in silence. They should really just have kept it that way, but no matter how much he hated Arthur, Francis hated silence more.

"When will you two be coming over this week?"

Arthur looked down, studying the pattern of the duvet. "I assumed it would be the same time as last week."

Francis sighed. "That's not going to work, I have a date that night."

"Oh." Again?

Why was he disappointed? It didn't matter if he had a silly crush on this berk (which he didn't) if the berk in question didn't feel the same. "Well, um, should I just have Matthew come here instead?" he suggested.

"With you as the resident chef?"

"We'll order something," he growled.

Francis contemplated this. "Alright, sounds good. But if my son ends up in the hospital with food poisoning from one of your scones…"

"I _said _we'd order something, you twat."

"They have x-rays. They can scan his stomach to figure out who did it."

"Could you not be such a muppet?"

"Did you just call me a puppet of a green frog?"

"It suits you."

"_FOUND IT!" _Alfred yelled from the living room. He ran back into his room, jumping onto his bed and displaying the wrinkled artwork with pride. The prince's cape waved majestically in a mysterious, sourceless wind.

Francis brought his hands to his mouth. "Oh Alfred, _c'est incroyable! _I love it!" Matthew hopped back up with his piece and showed it to Francis before directing it at the camera. The little prince stood on his planet, the signature tree nearby, with crude yellow stars sparkling in the background.

"Wow, very nice, Matthew! And I loved yours too, Alfred," Arthur chimed in.

"Thanks, Arthur," Mattie said politely.

"I'm glad you like it, Dad!" Alfred responded.

Arthur smiled, then glanced at the wall clock. It was about time to begin cooking dinner/heat up a frozen pizza and carrot sticks.

"Oh dear, looks like I've got to go start dinner. I'll see you two on Saturday, alright?" he said.

"Bye, Arthur," Mattie replied. A paw reached up from the bottom of the screen, a tiny hand wrapped around its wrist, and waved. "Kumajima says bye, too," he added.

"Bye, Kumajiro. Bye, Matthew. See you soon."

He took one last, fleeting look at that face, with its morning stubble and perfect chin and twinkling eyes, then left.

* * *

"_Herzlich wilkommen, _Francis. Gilbert will be very glad to see you."

There was a duet going on upstairs—piano and flute. The sound drifted down the stairwell and snaked through the impeccably clean house.

"Thank you, Ludwig," Francis replied, stepping across the threshold. He wiped his shoes on the doormat, then removed them and placed them on the shoe rack. Ludwig looked on a little anxiously, but the floor remained spotless and free of city germs. He breathed a sigh of relief when he thought Francis couldn't hear. (He could.)

"Gi-il? Where are you, _mon ami_?" Francis called, walking down the hall towards the stairs.

Feli peeked out his head from the kitchen. "He's in the library!" he told him, then went back to stirring whatever was in his pot on the stove. (Probably pasta sauce.) Francis heard Ludwig's footsteps enter the kitchen with Feli behind him and close the door while he climbed the narrow flight of stairs. He pushed open the door to the library, and the sonata grew louder. But something sounded off.

Finally Roderich stopped, mid-arpeggio. "_Gilbert! Wenn du mit mir mitspeilst, musst du _gut_ speilen!_ _Hasst du uberhaupt deine Flöte geübt?_"[Gilbert! If you're going to play with me, you have to play _well!_ Have you been practicing at all?]

Gilbert huffed. "_Naturlich hab ich auf's Flöte geübt! Es sind die Noten! Sie sind so dämlich lang, ich kann sie nicht lang genug halten!_" [Of course I've been practicing! It's the notes! They're so damn long, I can't hold them long enough!]

Francis slipped into the room unnoticed and sat down on the _chez lounge_. Dark wooden bookcases were crammed with sheet music and books filled with concertos and toccatas and etudes, individual papers falling out of their folders and gliding to rest on the faded carpet. Music stands stood guard by two windows with heavy ruby drapes, and instrument cases leaned haphazardly against the scratched-up upright piano that had been pushed against the wall, the one Roderich was currently sitting at and yelling at Gilbert from. It was the only room in the apartment Ludwig didn't try to clean.

"_Verliecht sollst du heute aufhören. Du hast mir schon gesagt, das du krank bist." _[Maybe you should stop for today. You did tell me you were sick.]

"_Es ist nur 'ne Kopfschmerzen._" [It's just a headache.]

"_Wenn du nicht arbeiten kannst, kannst du auch nicht die Flöte speilen._" [If you can't go to work, then you can't play the flute.]

Gil stared at him, mouth twisted and angry.

Roderich sighed. "_Wir können Morgen üben._" [We can practice tomorrow.] He turned to point at Francis. "_Kuck mal, Francis ist jetzt hier. Sprech mit ihn, ich kann den Klavier weiter spielen, wenn du willst._" [Look, Francis is here. Talk to him, I can keep playing the piano if you want.]

Gilbert glared a little longer. "…Fine." He picked up his flute case, slapped shut the book of music, and plopped down in a chair adjacent to Francis. In the background, Roderich started in on another piece, this one slower and reminiscent of a slow spring day in the countryside. Gilbert started cleaning off his flute, dismantling it and laying each piece gently into its velvet-lined case.

"Thanks again for coming. I needed some company besides Roder-dick here and Ludwig and his boyfriend," Gilbert grumbled.

"I can still _hear _you," Roderich said, annoyed. "And don't call Feliciano his boyfriend. That's very disrespectful."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He snapped his case shut.

Francis looked at his ruffled hair and plaid flannel, thrown on haphazardly over a plain white shirt. His extraordinarily pale features were flushed around the cheeks, and his nose was tinged pink. Gilbert definitely looked sick, that was for sure.

"You said you had a headache?" Francis asked.

"Yeah…" he replied, twisting the bottom hem of his shirt around his finger. "I woke up this morning with this killer headache. I took an Ibuprofen and everything, but it still hurts a lot." He clutched his forehead dramatically for effect.

"It must have been a pretty awful headache to get you out of work," Francis said.

"Eh, I'll be back in by tomorrow. This sort of stuff passes quickly, you know?" He laughed, a little cough escaping.

"Well…do you suppose a little Mean Girls marathon might cheer you up?"

Gilbert was already on his feet. "Damn, Franny, you know me way too well." He headed out the door and back down the stairs, but paused on the landing. "Say…what happened to that Arthur guy? He still bothering you?"

Francis tossed a bit of hair over his shoulder. "'I would rather stab myself with a spatula than spend time with that bastard', as Lovino would say."

Gilbert giggled a manly giggle. "Ha. I still can't get over the fact that he wears sweater vests. Of all things."

"I know, right?" Francis scoffed, as they walked down the steps. "Gretchen Weiners would _not _approve."

* * *

Back at this door already? It hadn't seemed like a week at all. Maybe 4 days, at most.

"Come in!" Francis called from the other side of the door.

Arthur stepped inside. Mattie was already sat on the couch with his overnight backpack and Kumajiro by his side. Alfred ran up and hopped on the couch, nattering about a new superhero from one of his comics.

A female voice came from the kitchen. "Oh, you must be Arthur Kirkland! I'm Amelie."

He turned to look at the couple. She had her hair done up in an elegant knot, dressed in a cerulean evening gown that framed her hips perfectly. Francis was fastening a silver pendant around her neck, the metal complementing her deep tan. "I have to say, your son is simply _adorable! _Francis told me all about the mix-up at the adoption center, but I suppose it was for the better, wasn't it?"

She was really gorgeous. See? He was straight.

Francis finished adjusting the necklace and came back around to face Arthur, who had been staring a little too long. He cleared his throat. Arthur jumped. "Well, it certainly was a stroke of luck that we lived so near each other. The boys really love spending time together," Francis said.

"R-right. Then I suppose I'll take Matthew and head back home?" Arthur stuttered in reply.

He nodded. A bit of hair flew into his mouth; he tucked it behind his ear with one long finger.**

OK, maybe not that straight.

"I just want to thank you again for watching Matthew for us," Amelie said with a smile.

Francis stroked her cheek affectionately. "So polite," he cooed. "Well, we'll be on our way now." He unlinked his arm with Amelie's to peck Matthew good-bye on the forehead. "_Salut,_ _mon petit ours. _Have a good time at Arthur's."

"_Salut, Papa,_" Matthew said, sliding off the couch. Each one filed out. Arthur heard the click of the lock from half-a-floor down as Francis locked the door behind them. Amelie giggled at something, and then they were out of range. He strained his ears, but their conversation was quiet. He felt a pang of something in his stomach.

This was ridiculous. Was he jealous? Of whom? Amelie was gorgeous, and a kiss on the cheek would have been enough to set him swooning. But Francis was gorgeous too, at least in terms of looks. His personality, on the other hand…well, actually, his personality was flirtatious. And gracious and kind and gentlemanly, if he liked you. You know what, screw his personality. Aesthetic attraction was a possibility. Did he want to _look _like that? He could just be obsessed with how good that face looked because he wished he had one like it. But did he want to _be _it? Or did he want to _fuck _it? Hell, he was probably just lonely. That would explain a lot. Including the part about him not being allowed to feel any other kind of feeling towards a man.

But that _chin!_

"Dad?" Alfred tugged at his trousers. Arthur looked down at his son, realizing they were almost to the car.

"Daddy. Dad!"

"Yes, what is it, Alfred?"

"Your face is crazy red."

Arthur looked at his reflection in the car mirror.

Shit, he was right.

* * *

*Fun fact: It is actually canon that France hates computers. At least according to the Hetalia wiki. But apparently he doesn't have trouble with other technologies, like video games and cellphones. ?

**(I know, the whole "long finger" part is horribly cliché. But love stories are cliché. What am I to do?)

* * *

**I apologize for this chapter being uploaded a day late. (I mistook my marriage registration form for a calendar...no? No. Okay.) My animation project was due Friday, so I basically had a day and a half to write. Fun.**

**Anyway, next week's chapter should be uploaded on Sunday, as usual. I still suck at replying to reviews, and if I can find free time in the next week I promise I will, I swear. If not I'll just answer them in the next author's note, because this is getting ridiculous.**

**Ludwig's Daycare should be coming along, since I have a lot less homework now that we're nearing the end of the school year. If you want to catch that, you can follow me as an author (wink-wink).**

**In conclusion, please let me know if my German or French or Spanish is off. (You can literally just say "_ is wrong, it should be written like _." I won't judge.) Don't forget to review, and thank you for reading! :)**


	8. Superman Saves The Day

Hmm.

He turned and twisted in the mirror, settling on a side view of his stomach. He sucked in a big breath of air, his skin pulling taut over his rib cage. The bones formed a rippling pattern over his chest, creating an effect like his abdomen was being swallowed by his rib cage.

He released the breath, pushing his stomach out as far as he could. A little pot-belly appeared, and the elastic of his boxer briefs dug into his skin. Ugh.

He turned back to the front, flexing his arms. They barely had any muscle tone. Not at all how they were supposed to look. He ought to exercise more, maybe lift weights or go to the gym or something.

But in the meantime he could just skip breakfast. Was Mattie awake yet? _He _couldn't skip breakfast, he was a growing boy. Francis poked his head into his son's room. Nope. Still sleeping. He had his arm wrapped around Kumajiro in a chokehold, the blankets tousled and bunched up against the wall. It was no wonder; the summer heat beat down with a vengeance on a London that didn't use air-conditioning.

Francis walked back into his room. What time was it? He looked at the clock on his nightstand. 10:23AM. It had been a while since he'd called his parents…

He dialed the number, then waited. But they didn't pick up. Francis fired off a text to his mother, telling her good morning and he loved them both and sorry for not calling them sooner. What else was there to do?...

He ought to get dressed. If he remembered correctly, the boys had another sleepover tonight, and that meant Arthur would see him. He had to look good. Mostly to rub his superior fashion sense in his face.

It took a good half-hour to figure out an outfit that would highlight his strengths and keep him cool in this weather, but some cuffed chinos and a layered top with a simple necklace did the trick. He tied his hair back with a matching ribbon, brushing out each curl with care and spraying it with a little salt water, and checked his chin in the mirror to make sure his beard wasn't getting _too _scruffy.

Something tugged at his pant leg. It was Mattie, rubbing his eyes and gesturing to his tummy. Francis bent down to pick him up.

"_As-tu faim, mon petit ours?_" [Are you hungry, my little bear?] he asked. Mattie nodded, resting his head on his papa's shoulder. Francis carried him to the breakfast nook, placing him gently on the bench and going back to the kitchen to fry an egg and a few strips of bacon. Mattie slowly woke up from his half-asleep state, and looked out the window at a pigeon roosting on the building across the street. He and Kumajiro had a conversation in broken French, using English words when they didn't know how to express it in the other language. But they both said a proper thank you when Francis placed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, cooked over-easy just the way he liked it.

They enjoyed a leisurely day together, sweating out the sweltering summer heat in the living room while Francis scribbled and scratched in his notebook, and Mattie and Kumajiro conducted a classroom for all the other stuffed animals. Each pupil received his own handcrafted sheet of homework, but Clifford ate his and Grisu* the dragon accidentally set his on fire after a particularly powerful sneeze, so they were both sent to the counselor for their issues with compulsive behavior. The two troublemakers were still in the middle of an unsuccessful session of sock puppet therapy when someone knocked on the door. Francis looked up from his writing and realized with a start that 7:00 had snuck up on him.

He'd barely talked to anyone. He looked back down at his hand; the side was black with smudged graphite, and his writing had gotten so rushed he wasn't sure if even he could read it. There were only 11 pages left in his notebook. He'd have to go and get out a new one before the night was over, or maybe loot the kitchen drawers for an errant notepad…

The knocker sounded a second time, and Francis jumped up and hurried over to open the door.

"Hello, Alfred! Sorry I was so late answering the door, I was lost in thought," he apologized, tossing the strands of his ponytail over his shoulder and smiling. "Good evening, Arthur," he added, looking up at him. Arthur looked away…was that a blush on his cheeks?

Francis decided not to dwell on it; he felt embarrassed for Arthur, and, quite frankly, he was a little embarrassed himself.

Arthur, on the other hand, was distraught. On his way over, two men had crossed the road at a red light, holding hands. It threw his thoughts back into that awful spin-cycle, where he argued with himself and chased every thought 'round in circles until the walls of his head came crashing down on themselves.

It—it just looked so _odd. _It seemed wrong. It was fine when it was women, he was okay with that, but men were different, somehow. But in uni, he'd met other…gay people, and they had been perfectly fine. They hadn't tried to convince him to sin, or anything terrible. (He'd done plenty of sinning under his own influence, anyway.) God ought not to care, if He did exist. He shouldn't be questioning that, actually, that was very disrespectful. He'd been taught his entire life—everything he had was given to him by that greater being, and it seemed really selfish not to acknowledge that—but then again, there was no concrete proof that it was all there because of the man in the sky, was there? And now people were using a person they weren't sure existed to justify discrimination against others who seemed perfectly normal…but so many cultures did and had done so in the past. So there must have been a good reason, right? Or something must be inherently wrong with homosexuality, for it to be so taboo in so many times and places. But now it was being accepted, and there were passages in the Bible arguing that it didn't matter…and other passages arguing that it did. Was there any proof that it was wrong? Or right? It didn't seem like it…

But it looked so _**odd! **_

And now—now he'd finally made it to the door, finally calmed the cycling down, and that damn face and those lanky arms and that elegant collarbone were back to make it start all over again. God_damnit_, he just couldn't deal with this right now!

"Are you going to come inside, or what?" Francis asked, fighting to keep the contempt from his voice.

"You should stay tonight, Daddy! You never stay over at our sleepovers!" Alfred said, enthusiastic at this brilliant new idea. Mattie nodded his head in agreement.

Francis took note of the little ones' faces and allowed himself a little internal grimace before nodding and smiling and gesturing for Arthur to step over the threshold. This whole ordeal was for the children, after all. They had to focus on their sons' happiness before they could focus on their own.

"Are…you so sure about that, Alfred?" Arthur asked. His eyes were worried, but no one but Mattie noticed. And Mattie was too shy to say anything.

"Yeah, Dad, come on! It'll be loads of fun, like that first time!" he pushed.

He couldn't spend any more time with Francis. He couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't do it.

_What a bad father, not willing to sacrifice his comfort for his own _son. _Are you really that pathetic? You're a horrible person. It never stopped, did it? You never changed. People don't change. You don't even go to church anymore. You don't even love the right people. That's how screwed-up you are. That's how loathsome._

"Da-ad, please?" Alfred whined, the smile gone.

_What're you gonna do, huh? Go out and drink? Lock yourself up inside your apartment again? What kind of example are you setting? Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot—_

"…Dad?"

It was too much.

"I—I—I'm so sorry, Alfred, Mattie, I really am, I just have to finish up some work tonight, but next time we can all do something together, I promise. I promise, okay?" he sputtered. He felt horrible. He just couldn't _do _it.

Alfred's face fell. "Oh…okay, then. See you tomorrow, Dad," he said, turning to go inside.

Arthur's conscience collapsed. Oh my God, he'd done it again. He was horrible. No matter how bad staying here was, a night alone, beating himself up over his stupidity and ignorance and selfishness was going to be so, so much worse. Sweating on the couch, unable to muster the strength to get up and make a mug of tea, unable to do anything but hate himself endlessly. Horrible, horrible idiot.

"Alfred, wait." His son turned back around, looking at him…with something less than love. If he broke this child now, he could never forgive himself. "I can stay for a few hours, how's that? I'll stay for a few hours and then I'll go home and get my work done." He crouched down so they were eye-level. "I'm sorry for never being around for you and Mattie. I'll stay for tonight, okay?" He waited with bated breath for an answer.

"…Really? You won't leave?" Alfred asked, not believing him.

"No no no, not tonight. I won't leave tonight, okay?"

His face lit up. It looked akin to something you'd see painted on the wall of a cathedral, the face of a cherub. "You really will? Wow! Thanks, Dad! We're gonna have so much fun! Come on, Mattie an' I were doing a story with Kumajiro and my superhero dolls and it's totally cool!" He tugged on Arthur's hand. Arthur got up to follow them to Mattie's room, feeling even guiltier than before.

He was so, so selfish. He'd made his decision because he knew how bad he would feel about it, not in the interest of his own son.

But at least his selfishness had made Alfred happy.

* * *

The play ended up being…interesting, to say the least. Kumajiro played the part of the damsel in distress, about to be thrown of the edge of the bed by the evil Dr. Matthew (who was unsettlingly good at his role).Of course, the superheroes swooped in to save the day, but Dr. Matthew vowed to seek revenge and then fled off into the distant land of Cuisine—a.k.a the kitchenette in the corner of the room, where he concocted a potent mixture of wooden food items and toy trains and doll shoes while the superheroes tended to Kumajama. One of them turned out to be a double-agent, however, slipping some of the potion into Ms. Kumajayjay's soup, after the ingestion of which she suffered a slow, painful death with Superman crying by her side in her final moments.

Francis and Arthur clapped feebly from where they sat cross-legged on the floor, slightly shell-shocked. The two actors took a bow—multiple bows, actually. They definitely brought out the best in each other…whether or not that was a good thing was up for debate.

Francis raised himself off the floor. "Well thank you for that wonderful performance, boys! You two did a fantastic job!" They beamed at the praise. "Now—I'm going to go make dinner. Any requests?"

Alfred jumped up and down. "Can we have pizza? Can we? Please, let's have pizza!" he yelled.

"Pizza sounds yummy," Mattie added, still holding a spoon from the kitchenette.

"Pizza? Of all the things, are you sure?" Francis asked, a little confused.

"Yeah, I wanna eat pizza!" Alfred confirmed.

"Well then…pizza it is! I'll go get started on the dough, and I can call you boys in when it's time to pick toppings, okay?"

"Yaaay!" Alfred high-fived Mattie. It was a little sloppy, because Mattie had his hand full with the spoon, but that was besides the point.

"I should be done in about 20 minutes. You two can play until then," he said, walking into the hallway. The twins gathered up their toys and piled them in the center of the floor, discussing a new plotline involving the addition of spaceships and kung-fu and a love triangle with Batman. Arthur stayed seated where he was for a few minutes, fidgeting and unsure of what to do. Eventually the boys noticed, and Alfred walked up to him.

"You should go help Francis with the pizza! You guys should be friends, since you spend so much time with each other," he said.

Mattie stood beside him. "Kumajoomoo thinks that's a good idea," he said, waving around the paws of the stuffed polar bear.

Arthur laughed. "I don't know about that. I'm not very good at cooking or talking to people." He paused. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and play with you two? Or maybe there's another story you want to show me?"

"That's okay, we aren't done it yet. And you need to talk to more people!" Alfred said with confidence.

Dammit, now his own son was playing matchmaker. "Well…"

Mattie piped up. "You don't smile a lot."

"Yeah, you have to smile more! If you talk to Francis, then you'll be happy!" Alfred concluded.

Arthur stayed sat on the floor, completely still. They knew he wasn't happy?...

"We'd be super-happy if you were happy, Daddy," Alfred added. That sold it.

"…If it'll make you happy. For my little man." Arthur pecked them both on the forehead and got up, knees shaking a little, and walked out of the room, down the hall, into the kitchen. This—this was something he could do to make his son happy. Even if it wasn't what he wanted.

"Do you think they'll get along this time?" Alfred asked his brother, once his dad's footsteps had faded.

Mattie's head lolled over to one side as he tied a cape around Kumajiro's neck. "Maybe not now, but they will. Your dad's too lonely not to."

* * *

Francis heard the creaking of the floorboards as he was rolling out the dough, still baffled as to why the boys would want pizza instead of a delicious French soup or summer salad or something like that.

He groaned. "What do you want?" he asked, turning to look at Arthur.

He crossed his arms and huffed indignantly. "You—" he sputtered a bit "—c-could be a bit happier to see me, you know."

Francis returned to the pizza dough. "Right. So what are you doing here? I kind of doubt you decided to waltz on in here all by yourself."

"Well, you're right. The boys thought I should make more friends, so they sent me in here to talk to you."

Francis snorted. "They thought you should make more friends? _Mon dieu, c'est gènial!_"

Arthur reddened. He shouldn't have admitted that, now he'd make fun of his apparent loneliness. "Oh, shut your yap. It's not like it's true."

Francis set aside the rolling pin and began ladling sauce from a simmering pot on the stove. "Is it, though? I never hear of you leaving the house anymore."

"I—I mean, I shouldn't be out drinking or anything, that's irresponsible. I'm a father now, I have to put Alfred first."

He looked over at Arthur. "You must be kidding, right?"

He stayed quiet.

"You haven't left the house at all?"

"…I've gone out to get groceries and drop off Alfred at school and…you know…" Something made him want to let out what was really going on, how he felt like a failure whenever he got near a bottle of alcohol, or thought about finding a girlfriend, or did work while Alfred was watching television.

Francis looked astounded. "Well goodness, how are you supposed to be a good parent if you keep yourself from having fun? No wonder they're worried, that's just not healthy!"

"It's not a problem, and it's none of your business!" Arthur retorted. "You're an extrovert, of course it's weird to you. I just get along fine without talking to people."

"Being that cut-off isn't normal, extrovert or not," Francis said.

"Why would you care?" He felt that old annoyance and anger rising back up to the surface. He was almost glad to see it back, if it meant he'd stop thinking about Francis's voice or Francis's hair or Francis's chest.

"If I know someone isn't feeling well, I'm not going to ignore it, no matter how much I dislike them," he stated matter-of-factly. "It's inhumane."

"Would you quit talking about me like I'm an abused puppy or something? That's so condes—"

Francis cut him off. "Shh, they'll hear you yelling."

Arthur shrunk back. How many times was he going to be a disappointment this evening?

Francis stared at him, until he finally let out a sigh. "Have you RSVPed to that birthday party for a classmate of Mattie and Alfred's?"

"Um—yes, why?"  
Francis inhaled. Was he really going to do this?

Yes, yes he was. He took the plunge. "Look. Do you want to do something while they're at the party? It's only for a few hours, and you obviously need to get out of the house."

Now it was Arthur's turn to stare. "You're taking pity on me."

"I don't want Alfred's papa going crazy."

"That's so disgusting. You're taking _pity on me._"

"No, I'm not taking pity on you, I'm trying to help you stop being such a shut-in. I know a cute little French bistro, it's maybe a 30-minute walk from the party. Maybe you'll meet somebody."

"Absolutely not."

"OK, fine then, I'll set you up with a friend of mine. Would you rather I do that?"

He didn't know which was worse. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

"No."

His heart skipped a beat. His mind jumped to conclusions. That would have sounded almost…_romantic_ out of context. Did he like it? Jesus Christ.

Francis persisted. "Pick one."

"You can't make me go." Did he want to go? Stuck with this blighter for 3 hours? Stuck with that chin and collarbone and nose—

Francis played the guilt card. "If you're not interested in doing it for yourself, then do it for Alfred! Do you really think you're being a good role model by sitting inside your apartment all day? What must the poor child think?"

"I—I—"

"You have to take care of yourself. It's impossible to be a good parent if you're not enjoying yourself. They _know_. Children are so much more perceptive than people realize."

"This is for Alfred, not me?"

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Yes. I'm concerned for Alfred, not you."

Arthur thought about it, tried to find a way out, but the guilt card had worked. "Fine. Fine, I'll do it. But this is for my son. Not because I'm your little project or whatever."

Francis, satisfied, returned to spreading the sauce around the pizza with the bottom of the ladle. "I never said you were."

Well. If this wasn't the ultimate sacrifice for Alfred, he didn't know what was.

* * *

*Grisu is an adorable fire-fighting dragon from Italy.

* * *

**This chapter was slightly shorter than I wanted it to be. But...they've basically got a date set for the next one. So hopefully that makes it worth it. :D**

**I don't have much to say about this one, so I'll sign off on the usual note. Next chapter will be out next Sunday. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to leave a review!**


	9. On Open Windows and Rainy Nights

"Have a nice time, Alfred. Remember your manners, and don't fill up too much on sugar and sweets, okay?" He pecked his son on the forehead as the boy got out of the car, present tucked under his arm.

"Bye, Dad!" Alfred waved and started running toward the building.

"Bye, little man!" Arthur yelled back, watching until his son disappeared inside. With a sigh he pulled back out into the street. Now that that was taken care of, it was time for the fun part:

Finding a place to park.

Actually, compared to what came after, looking for parking was fantastic. He would rather drive around aimlessly for the next three hours than face whatever Francis had planned for the afternoon. Although if he used that as an excuse, Francis would just rag on him about the impracticalities of using a car in the city.

God, apparently, was not on his side. In what any other scenario he would have called "lucking out", a free space appeared within 5 minutes of searching. Pouting, he pulled into the space, shutting off the car and sitting sullenly in the driver's seat.

He could still cancel, right? Why was he doing this again? Oh right, Alfred. Jesus Christ. As much as he hated to admit it, he had barely left his apartment in the past week or two (or five). Dammit, he should just get out of the house more, then he wouldn't have to do this.

Oh well. He'd already wasted gas coming here. Might as well make the most of it. He climbed out of the car, locked the doors, and walked to the sidewalk, unsure of where to go.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket. Arthur pulled it out and answered without checking the caller ID.

A French accent yelled from the other end. "_Branleur, _where are you? I'm not going to let you bail on this!"

UGHHHHHHH.

"What sort of a name is that?" he grumbled in reply.

"You don't need to know. Now are you at home?"

"_No_, you imbecile. I just needed to find a place to park."

"You should really—"

"Speaking of which, where are _you?_" Arthur cut him off before he could start ranting.

"I'm waiting at the building where the party is. I thought that was obvious?"

"_No._" Maybe. Probably. "Why would that be obvious?"

"That's besides the point. Just walk back to the building, _oui_? I'll be waiting by the entrance."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, on my way," he muttered, hanging up and shoving the phone back in his pocket. Traveling at a brisk pace, he made it to the building within ten minutes. By the time he'd turned onto the right block, he could make out Francis and his lanky, lean figure leaning against the building. Sunlight flashed off the glass of a rose-gold wristwatch and his baby blue neck scarf was speckled with shadows from the emerald green leaves swaying overhead. He had his hair loose today; the tips brushed the shoulders of his cardigan. A bag with loads of (unnecessary) buckles and straps hung by his side. Pencil-thin skinny jeans made him look taller than he really was, and the burgundy fabric folded over itself where it was tucked into a fashionable pair of boots.

Arthur suddenly felt a need to run his hand through his hair, praying for the unruly locks to lie flat, but to no avail. (If anything, it just mussed it up even more.)

Francis noticed the approaching figure out of the corner of his eye and turned to face him. A gentle breeze blew a few strands of hair in his face.

Why was he so effortlessly _gorgeous?_

Arthur looked at his face, surprised. "You're wearing _glasses?_"

Francis shrugged. "I thought they would pair well with my outfit. Besides, contacts can be _such _a hassle, it's a relief to not have to deal with them every once in a while." He glanced at his watch. "We should get going," he said, setting off in the direction Arthur had come from.

"You wear contacts?" Arthur muttered to himself, following him. Their footsteps intermingled with those of the other pedestrians, blending into the thrumming and humming of a busy London. Cars whizzed by and pigeons pecked at the ground. The sky hung grey and overcast, like any other day. If it weren't for the stuffy, humid air, you wouldn't know it was summer.

"Might I ask where we're going?" Arthur asked.

Francis sighed. "I told you. It's a French bistro. For _déjeuner_."

"It only serves lunch?"

He looked at him, eyes wide with surprise. "_You_ speak _French?_"

Shit. "It was required learning at my secondary school! We had to take a language course."

"But you still don't know what 'branleur' means, right?"

Arthur glared at him. "I swear, I'm going to look that up when I get home."

"No, no, really, don't bother," he said, laughing nervously.

"As if they would teach us French cuss words in a public school language course! What did you expect?"

"But you could have chosen any language, right? Why French?" Francis pushed, changing the subject.

Arthur narrowed his eyes before giving in. "It was the more popular choice. It was either that or German…" He trailed off, averting his eyes. "And there may or may not have been a girl I liked in the class as well."

"_Sérieux?_ Oh, that's so poetic, the language of romance bringing two lovebirds together!" Francis dug around in his bag, whipping out his notebook and scribbling something down with glee. "_Ce serait parfait comme trame de fond!_" ["That would be perfect as a (character) backstory!"]he mumbled in excitement.

"Are you kidding me? It's sickeningly sappy, not to mention pathetic. She was way out of my league anyway, it's not like we actually ended up together."

Francis waved the argument aside with his hand, cramming his notebook back into his bag and securing the straps. "So what? Your dull real life story may not have a happy ending, but my fictional one certainly can."

He's using me as inspiration for a story? Arthur thought. Wow. A scrap of his memory, immortalized in writing. What a weird feeling. He'd…never really thought any part of him could be interesting enough to make a story. But someone else did, apparently.

"I may have been overestimating slightly when I said a 30-minute walk…it looks like we'll be there in a few minutes," Francis said.

Arthur looked up from his shoes. They stood at a corner, waiting for the light to change, surrounded by noisy children and flustered parents and befuddled tourists.

"How many more blocks?" he asked.

"3, I think," Francis replied, raising himself onto his toes and back down again, hands clasped behind his back as he waited. The heavy summer air seemed to dissipate a little.

The light flashed to green, and a sea of people spilled onto the crosswalk. Car horns blared until the walk was finally free again, and traffic accelerated with a roar behind them.

"Wait, you think?" Arthur said, finally responding. "How can you not know how many blocks away it is?"

"It's a rough estimate, and so…you know…" Francis made vague gestures with his hands, wheeling them around in random spirals as he walked.

"How long have you even lived in London?" Arthur grumbled, fussing with his shirtsleeve.

"Well…1—or 2? years by now, but I've always loved Paris…and the French countryside is to die for. I don't think I've visited my parents in ages." A wistful look fluttered across his face. "But I remember vibrant colors, and the sweet, and—what's the word, crispy?—no, pristine air, and rolling fields of grass and trees. But the best part was the flowers. They were everywhere, even when it wasn't springtime, but when it was—that was when our little town really displayed its true splendor." They crossed another intersection, the one-lane alleyway cluttered with flimsy metal garbage cans and discarded cardboard boxes. An ashen gray cat poked its head out of one, a mouse with matted and filthy white fur clutched between its jaws. "_C'était très magnifique. _What I wouldn't give to go back in time to those springs. Even if it were just for a day."

Arthur looked back down at his shoes, unconsciously avoiding the cracks. "Your childhood sounds wonderful."

"Oh, it was." He was still smiling warmly at the memory as they turned into the bistro, the bell chiming overhead. They took a seat at a table near the white-washed windows, the panes weaving intricate patterns between the slices of glass. Once a waiter had swooped in to take their orders, (a garden salad and sparkling water for Francis, tea and a sandwich for Arthur) Francis continued.

"_Et toi? _What was it like for you, growing up in this cloudy country?"

Arthur tried to think of a way to object, but it was true. Meteorologically, England was a very cloudy and generally dull country.

"Ah-_ha! _See? Even you can't deny it," he gloated, laughing. God, what an annoying laugh. He wished he could hear it more often.

Aaaaand there it was again.

"Look, you bampot, it's not like growing up in the UK is nearly as boring as its weather."

"Then do tell! The food won't be here for a while." Francis leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands.

"I had a family. We lived in an apartment and I attended school until I was 18, then I moved out," Arthur said with a bored expression, his arms crossed.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Very funny. Do you have siblings? What did your apartment look like? What about that girl from when you chose French? I want to know more about her."

"Are you trying to 'draw me out of my shell' or some BS?" he asked, making air-quotes with his fingers.

"Nonsense. I remember you said you had brothers, _non? _Tell me about them."

Arthur groaned. "For God's sake—" He paused. "Wait…I said that ages ago. You still remember?"

"It seemed like they were important to you. Now are you going to tell me or not?"

"It looks like you'll nag me either way."

"Since when did you become so perceptive?"

"Hmmph." Arthur let his arms fall at his sides, but quickly crossed them again. Tense. "Fine. I have 3 brothers, 2 older and 1 younger. And a mother and father, of course."

"What are their names?"

"Um—" He made a pained face. "Well…Allistor is the oldest, and then Dylan, and Aedan is the youngest."

"Arthur, Allistor, Aedan?"

"I mean—God knows what my parents were thinking, I guess they just liked 'A' names. Not that it really matters what their names are, I don't really talk to them much." He chuckled a little. "I'm not even sure my parents have four children anymore."

"Oh…is one of them sick? I'm so sorry…" Francis said.

Arthur let out a clipped laugh. "Ha! I wish." Contempt edged its way into his voice. "No, nothing so fortunate. I'd just assumed at this point that they'd disowned me. I've no doubts it'd be for the better."

"I…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up," Francis apologized, growing uncomfortable.

He looked over at Francis's worried face, the Frenchman's expression wilting and terrified he'd hit a sour note with Arthur.

He felt guilty. And a little hurt, hurt that he'd hurt him, if that made any sense at all. "No, it's not your fault. I shouldn't be telling you this," Arthur apologized.

"…what?"

"Just pretend I didn't say anything. I don't like burdening others with my problems."

The bistro hummed in the background as Arthur stared out the window, furiously rebuilding his walls as they crumbled between his fingertips; as Francis watched him, scared that he was building his walls stronger and stronger every time he managed to crack the surface.

"Did you grow up in London?"

"Hmm?" Arthur turned his gaze from the window to him, but when he met Francis' stare, his eyes quickly averted to a bookshelf behind him instead.

"I asked if you grew up in London, since you said you had an apartment."

"No…no, my father worked at the University of Manchester. They gave us a place to live, roomier than you'd expect for the city. I guess that's one reason why he took it."

"Did you go to that university, then?"

"Yeah. I mean…they took me on as a legacy student, reduced tuition and whatnot, but then I took a gap year and after that I had to get through it on my own."

Another silence.

"I wish it would rain more often here." This time it was Arthur speaking first.

Francis let out a small laugh. "6 days out of 7 isn't enough?"

"Manchester is one of the rainiest cities in the UK, so compared to London, that's nothing."

"Oh, so you have some sort of emotional connection with the rain, is that it?"

"I used to go to bed with the windows a crack open, so I could listen to the rain as I fell asleep. It's quite comforting. And outdoors, rain brings out colors you never knew were there, once it's over."

"I suppose I could see the appeal," Francis agreed. "But I still prefer my sunny French countryside."

Arthur had turned back to the window. Francis watched the way the light fell across his face, playing over the bridge of his nose, intensifying the dark green shades in his eyes, highlighting the blond streaks in his hair. It gave his pale skin a sort of angelic glow.

Maybe there were good things about staying inside your whole life.

Two plates, one with a salad and one with a sandwich, were slid in front of them, the waitress giggling and whispering something to her friend as she walked away with the serving tray tucked under her arm.

Francis laughed. "_Mon dieu, _I think she thinks we're a couple! That's hilarious."

Arthur simply nodded, choosing to focus on his sandwich instead.

* * *

They ate in peace for a few minutes, before Francis asked exactly what was in Arthur's sandwich and initiated an argument over ideal lunchmeats. Arthur fought for the humble combination of ham and swiss, while Francis lauded the distinct flavor of Italian smoked prosciutto and French brie. Arthur ended up winning by tiring out his opponent, who gave in on the condition that it depended on the _brand_ of ham and swiss.

It was already a short walk back, but it felt even shorter. Soon they were in front of the light gray apartment building, children already leaving with their hands clasped tightly around their parents'. Arthur and Francis lingered by the steps, unsure of what to do. (At least, Arthur was.)

"Well? Was it worth leaving the house for?" Francis asked. Had his idea worked? Would Arthur even admit it?

The man in question shuffled his feet. "Better than lounging around in front of the computer," he conceded.

"Would you do it again?" he pushed.

"Not _that _much better."

"Ha! Sure." Francis glanced toward the door. More people were spilling out the door and down the steps. "Well I'm going to go pick up Matthieu now. Think about it, _oui?_"

"Oh _please_," Arthur guffawed, but he'd already disappeared in the crowd of people.

* * *

"Did you have a good time, Alfred?" Arthur asked, braking at a red light.

"Yeah! There was tons of yummy cake and it was this wacky blue color, and we got party favors! And there were lots of balloons, too, but Jason's dad said we had to leave them there." He paused. "Hey, weren't you going to that thing with Francis?"

"Um, yes. What of it?" He accelerated again, moving with the constant start-and-stop flow of city traffic.

"Did _you _have a good time?"

Did he? That man was still terribly annoying. And ridiculously fashionable, and quarrelsome. Not to mention he wasn't supposed to like any aspect of this man in the way that he did. Although if he was being honest with himself…

"I…well, yes, I suppose I did."

* * *

That night, when it rained, Francis left the window open.

* * *

**Holy crap! It's _finally _up!**

**I'm really sorry about the delay, by the way. I was having a nasty couple of weeks (anxiety and school and other things that shouldn't stress me out but do anyway). I still want to stick to my "regular" update schedule, by which I mean a new chapter every Sunday, so I'll do my best to keep it up for this weekend.**

**This chapter is shorter than most of the ones I've written, which is weird for such a major(?) event, but I feel like I fit everything I wanted to into these few thousand words. And now things are getting exciting!**

**Also: I've hit over 115 follows on this story. That's CRAZY. Thank you all so much for supporting this fic! I never could have imagined this many people following it in so little time.**

**As always, I would love it if you would leave a review! :) Thanks for reading, and sticking with me through all this.**


	10. The Nature of Silence

Clack.

Clack. _Snap. _

The page rustled as he turned it over, flipping the magazine back around and continuing onto the next paragraph. On the floor, the child leafed through an instruction booklet, carefully examining each picture before reaching to the pile of Legos scattered across the carpet.

_Tsch-k. Snap. _

Plastic bricks clicked and clattered against each other. Slowly the colorful pile on the floor grew smaller and smaller, until only a few pieces remained, buried between the fibers of the carpet.

On the wall hung an oakwood clock, stained a deep, dark brown. Below its face the pendulum swung behind a pane of glass, reflecting the quiet, drowsy living room back to its inhabitants. The clock hands moved of their own accord, or so it seemed: when they looked up after a time of 5 minutes, 10 had passed; a time of 10, and it was only 5.

The last page of the booklet fell shut, and the little boy leapt to his feet, cupping the miniature fire truck in his hands as he ran over to his father.

"Da-ad! Daddy, look! Look what I built!" he squealed with excitement, lifting the model over the side of the armchair. His father set down the magazine on the sidetable and took the truck carefully in his hands, inspecting it from all angles.

"Wow, good job, Alfred!" he said as he extended and retracted the ladder attached to the truck bed. "And you built this all in a half-hour?"

"Mm-hmm!" He nodded enthusiastically, reaching for the truck. Arthur handed it back gently. "And look, see? It can open the doors, an' the hood, and if you take off the roof there's a lil' man sitting inside it! He's got a steering wheel and a hat and everything!" Alfred pointed out each feature in turn. Arthur listened intently.

"That's really neat," he commented.

"And if you take it apart you can make a tiny dinosaur, or a _motorcycle!_" he continued.

"A _motorcycle?_"

"A _motorcycle!_"

"Which one are you going to build next?"

"I'm not sure yet. I just wanna drive the truck around for a little bit and then I'll choose," he said, rolling the toy up and down the arm of the chair. It zipped along the worn fabric and jumped over the indents where the buttons sat in the back. The car, accompanied by little _zoom _and _whoosh _noises, drove over to the other side, did a few gravity-defying slaloms along the side of the armrest, made an epic jump onto the sidetable and came to a stop on the magazine.

"What'cha reading?" the boy asked, looking at the colorful graphs and microscopic words chunked into rectangular, organized paragraphs.

"Hmm? Oh, it was an article on neurology, and how machines and computer programs nowadays can interpret brainwaves to do things like control robots."

The blank look on Alfred's face spoke for itself.

"Well—here. Okay, so first off, _neurology _is the study of the brain, and how it works. It's really complex and difficult, because human brains have so many different parts and we don't know how they all work."

"…Ok," Alfred said.

"Computers work a lot like human brains. And when you want a computer to do something, you have to give it a code. Like a…signal, or command, but in a special computer language."

"There are languages for _computers?_"

"Mm-hmm! They have special names, like Javascript, or HTML, or C++."

"Those sound really weird."

"They are weird, I suppose—they're different from human languages. Because you're not talking to the computer, you're just telling it what to do."

"Can computers talk to people, then?"

"There are scientists who are trying to make talking computers, but they haven't finished yet."

"Aw, I wanna talk to a computer!"

Arthur laughed. "By the time you're my age, you'll probably be able to."

His eyes lit up. "Really? No way!" He paused, and thought for a moment. "So what do human brains have to do with it?"

"Well, using the computer languages, they typed up a special program. It's like a big instruction manual, telling the computer what to do with any information it's given. After that, they stuck sensors to a person's head, sensors that could read brainwaves and tell the difference between them."

"So there are different kinds of brainwaves? And we can read them?"

"Some of them. And this special program read those brainwaves, and then translated them from brainwaves into a computer language, which told the computer what to do. In this case, the brainwaves told the computer to move a robot arm."

"That sounds really complicated."

"It was; that's why it's such a big deal. Now it might be possible for people without arms or legs to get a robot arm or leg instead, and move it with their brain."

"Like a cyborg! That's awesome!" Alfred's face lit up with wonder.

Arthur smiled, ruffling his hair. "Isn't it? Everyone in the scientific community is insanely excited."

Alfred picked up the truck and fiddled with one of the doors absentmindedly. "When I'm older, d'you think maybe _I _could talk to computers? And make cyborg robots?"

He looked down at his son and felt joy welling up in his chest. "Are you saying you want to learn how to code?"

"Is that how I can talk to computers?"

Arthur nodded, growing more and more excited.

"Then yeah! I wanna learn how to code!" Alfred proclaimed, beaming.

Arthur beamed back.

* * *

"I still don't understand how they did it."

"I've been explaining it to you for the past 10 minutes! Have you been listening at all?"

"Yeah, yeah." He waved the comment away with his free hand. "And so now you're teaching little Alfred how to program?" Francis said incredulously, sipping from a thin glass of champagne.

"He's so excited. _I'm_ so excited. It's like a special father-son thing that we can do together," Arthur said, leaning back on the couch and clutching a mug of tea in his hands. He'd been so excited about finding a common interest between himself and his son, and wanted to tell anyone and everyone about this new development, he'd forgotten to be pissed off by Francis' very existence.

Francis, on the other hand, was confused. He was so used to a grumpy Arthur that the new cheery disposition made him seem like an entirely different person. The chatter was something new, too. He could barely get a word in edgewise—not that he wasn't happy at the chance to do less talking and more drinking. Plus, now that Arthur was focusing more on what he was saying and less on Francis, the Frenchman was free to let his eyes glide over the smooth curves of his chest and the youthful, rounded arc of his jawline. After all, admiring the finer things in life _was_ what he did best.

Heh.

"…he really likes Legos, too, so I'm thinking maybe for his birthday—since it is coming up and all, on the 2nd—I could gift him one of those robot sets, or Mindstorms, although I'm not sure how much they cost…"

You know, if you put all his features down on paper, wrote them in a list one-by-one and tried to draw them, he'd be ugly. A rounded nose and thick eyebrows and messy dirty-blonde hair weren't supposed to work with skinny arms and legs and a little extra baby fat in the cheeks and a breast that never really finished growing. But combined, thrown together on Arthur, it looked right. He looked cozy, comfortable, like coming home. There weren't words in English _or _French to describe how nice he looked, the little fire that lit itself in Francis' core and warmed up his stomach when he saw him.

It was bizarre, honestly. Not even he understood how it worked, but it did. And as long as he stuck to the current strategy of look-but-don't-touch, it could stay that way.

"…do they offer programming courses for 5-year-olds? I wonder if they're teaching it in the public schools at all…anyway, it's just so nice to find something we can bond over, it makes me feel even more like a father, you know?"

"Hmm." Francis nodded, setting the champagne flute gently onto the glass of the coffee table. It made a little clink, the sound reverberating until he slid a fabric coaster underneath. "Well, you seem quite happy about it," he observed, still maybe a little _too _focused on the way Arthur's lips moved when he spoke. It was like those documentaries you watched on TV when you had absolutely nothing better to do, where the camera lingered on and the narrator dissected every last movement of the specimen at hand.

Arthur drank the last of his tea, tipping the bottom of his mug up toward the ceiling to catch the dregs before getting up from the couch. He walked into the kitchen, at which point Francis was snapped out of his lustful reverie. Glancing down at the empty flute on the coffee table, he thought he might get a refill. But then again…thoughts like this were unlike him, at least for someone whom he had known and despised for as long as Arthur. Usually getting to know someone's personality affected his attraction towards them, but now his eyes were drifting over to the kitchen, their gaze slowly moving down the arch of his back…

Yeah. Definitely enough alcohol for today.

Arthur came back with a fresh mug of tea, steam wafting from the top and blurring the lines that defined his face.

"Why do you drink such a warm drink in the middle of _summer?_" Francis asked, trying to get an argument going. He was done thinking for the day, especially if he was thinking about Arthur's body. _There is nothing attractive about this man's personality,_ he reminded himself, settling back in his chair and adjusting his shirt collar.

Arthur glanced up from his mug. "What's wrong with it? As long as I enjoy it, and I'm dressed light enough, it's not a problem. Besides," he added, "my apartment has an AC. So I'm used to it being nice and cool."

"I still don't understand how you can stand it. And you're in _my _apartment now, and my apartment is 28 degrees Celsius."*

"Maybe if you didn't insist on wearing so many layers of clothing you'd feel cooler."

"Oh please, as if you would know anything about sacrificing comfort for fashion," he scoffed, tossing a lock of hair over his shoulder. It looked sexier that way, in his opinion. He'd left it down today, when he'd heard Arthur was coming over. So he could rub his good looks in his face, of course.

"I may not know much about fashion, but I know plenty about heat stroke." Arthur sipped his tea and glanced at Francis from across the top of the mug. "But that's none of my business."**

Francis cocked his head and stared at him, annoyance mixing with amusion*** on his face. "Hmm…" He hummed to himself, the cogs in his brain turning.

Arthur lowered his mug as he stared back. "…Francis?"

He continued humming, apparently deep in thought. At this point, the mug had been set onto the coffee table and Arthur sat uncomfortable and nervous on the sofa, eyes flicking around the room. "Francis…I don't like the look on your face…"

"A-HA!" he yelled. Arthur jumped, upsetting a throw pillow. "Jesus CHRIST, don't _do _that!" he yelped, but Francis ignored him.

"I'll give you a makeover!" he announced triumphantly, bringing his fist down on his palm. Arthur stared at him, unamused.

"Are you serious."

"_Très serieux,_" he replied, looking proud of himself.

"Are you some sort of 12 year-old school girl? Absolutely not!" Arthur said. He had crossed his arms.

"Yes! We can look for clothes—"

"No—"

"And I can fix up your hair—"

"_No—_"

"And I have a little makeup that you can use, too, foundation for your vampire-y indoor skin—"

"What the hell?"

"But the absolute first order of business would be to pluck those eyebrows."

He splayed his hands protectively across his face. "Don't you _dare _touch my eyebrows!" he hissed, in a very vampire-like fashion.

"Pfft, I'm the one who has to look at them all the time," Francis said, leaning his stubbly chin on his hand.

"You don't have to look at my face," Arthur muttered, still defending his eyebrows.

"PLEASE. It's setting a bad example for Alfred. How traumatizing must it be for a boy to come home, everyday, to a _father who has caterpillars nesting over his eyes!_"

Arthur relaxed his arms, scowling. "They're not nearly that bad. And where do you come up with this stuff, anyway?"

He shrugged, picking up the champagne flute and twirling it absent-mindedly between his fingers. "I wouldn't be a published author if I wasn't creative. And they are without a doubt that bad. Let me pluck them."

"Either your creativity or all that alcohol. And _no._" His arms had flown in front of his chest again, crossed defiantly. "If you get within 3 meters of my face with a tweezers I swear I'll place a restraining order on you."

"You're no fun!"

"Buzz off!"

"Come on. It's going to take another glass of champagne to get me through staring at those bushy behemoths any longer."

"I _said _you don't have to stare at my face," Arthur replied, a pink tinge spreading across his cheeks. Anxiety bubbled up in his torso, a feeling that he was sinning, or going to sin, and evil whispers began to weave their way into his ears.

"Oh, Arthur..." Francis began coyly, leaning forward a little despite himself.

Unease crept through his stomach, and he tensed the muscles in his arms, pulling them tighter across his chest. This whole situation…he just felt uncomfortable, and in certain…other areas, too. One whisper stood out in particular, urging him on.

No, he thought to himself, this wasn't right. He should leave. He would leave.

He stood up abruptly. "It's almost 3:30. I should go pick up the boys."

Francis clicked his tongue, running a finger around the rim of his glass. It made a spooky, unsettling sound that rang through the living room, like the cry of a ghost. "Alright then."

Arthur walked over to the entryway, and, realized he was still carrying his mug, set it down on the bureau pushed against the wall, stacked high with a mess of miscellaneous keys and notes. He slid his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet off the bureau, and tucked it into his pocket. He knew Francis was watching him leave from the living room. It felt like his eyes were boring into his back. Arthur could feel his face getting hotter and hurriedly pulled open the door, escaping out into the hallway where he could breathe again. Before he tugged it closed, he muttered a good-bye.

"_Salut._"

Francis smiled, and would have replied, but the door had already clicked shut.

* * *

Basch was sitting on the couch again, arguing with Roderich about something. Probably chocolate, or the economy, or something like that. Gilbert didn't really care.

He walked over to the corner of their living room, by the great big window, where Gilbird's cage was. He dragged his feet a little. _Man, _was he tired. There was probably a chair nearby, but he didn't feel like pulling it up. There was a book in his hand; he tucked it under his arm and awkwardly tried to open the cage. After a few moments of cautious deliberation, Gilbird hopped onto his outstretched finger. Gil closed the cage with his free hand and removed his book from his armpit, sitting down on the floor and crossing his legs. He leaned against the wall and flipped to the bookmark, holding the page in place with his elbow while he dipped his hand into the birdseed bag by the cage. Cupping his fingers, he brought his other hand close so Gilbird could have a snack as he read.

Sunlight was dancing across the furniture in the living room. Leaves distorted the sunbeams that fell through the window, and dust particles floated through the air. The sounds of the city were ever present outside, but after years of living in London, they had become nothing more than white noise. On this serene Sunday afternoon, color and sound seemed to blend perfectly, making everything else—the future, the past—seem insignificant compared to now. If he could live in this present, this peaceful moment in time, forever, he would without a second thought.

After a few minutes, Basch and Roderich had quieted down a little, but it didn't really matter. Their chatter was still blurry background noise as Gil focused on his book. Gilbird let out a small chirp. Feliciano and Ludwig must have been baking something in the kitchen again; the scent of flour and sugar wafted into the living room, and Gil took it in one deep breath through his nose.

Bad idea.

He burst out into a raucous coughing fit, violently hacking and wheezing, desperate. So, so desperate. Specks of blood landed on his shirt sleeve as he coughed and coughed and coughed into his arm, his chest rattling with each forced breath. Gilbird had fluttered off somewhere in panic, and now Roderich and Basch were rushing to his side, and Basch was yelling something in the direction of the kitchen, and then—Ludwig and Feliciano were in the living room, their forearms and apron fronts covered in flour, their eyes wide in terror, but then he realized something scarier. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Gott im Himmel, er könnte nicht atmen, er könnte es nicht, _er könnte nicht atmen. _All he could do was keep coughing, try to get whatever it was out of his lungs. "_Ich..ich kann's nicht…oh Go—Gott…" _["I…I can't…oh Go—God…"]

Ludwig and Roderich were at his side, rubbing his back and yelling in German, when the fit began to subside. Their faces were sideways, parallel to the floor, and that was when Gilbert realized he was doubled over and panting heavily. His messy silver hair fell into his eyes and blocked their faces as he stared at the hardwood in shock. He didn't know what else to do. How had this all happened? How long was he coughing? There was blood on his sleeve. That probably wasn't supposed to be there.

"Gilbert! GILBERT!"

Finally their yells got through to him, and slowly he curled back up, straightening out his spine and gasping, arching his back and face to the ceiling.

"_Gilbert! Gott im Himmel, bist du OK? Kannst du jetzt atmen?_" Ludwig. ["Gilbert! Good God, are you OK? Can you breathe now?"]

Gilbert turned his face to his brother, inhaling deeply. His chest still rattled with each breath. In between pants he said, "_Ja. Ja, jetzt geht es mir gut. Phui._" ["Yeah. Yeah, I'm doing good now. Phew."]

Ludwig pulled his brother into a hug, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. Roderich stared, eyes round as saucers, hand half-outstretched and unsure what to do. He was still kneeling on the floor. Feliciano looked on, horrified. Basch's face remained somber, a darkness coming over his features.

Eventually Ludwig broke the hug, still holding his brother by his shoulders, and began asking him questions. "_Gilbert. War das, das erstes mal, das das...in eine weile...passiert ist?_" ["Gilbert. Was this the first time this...happened...in a while?"]

Gilbert nodded.

Ludwig breathed out a long sigh of relief. "_Wann war das letztes Mal, das du bei der Arzt war?_" ["When was the last time you went to the doctor?]

"_Emm…ein Jahr, verleicht. Ein oder zwei Jahren._" ["Umm…one year, maybe. One or two years."]

"_Du Scheißkopf, das ist nicht genug!" _he yelled, panic in his eyes. Gilbert felt guilty. Was he the reason for that look? "_Hast du ___dich _vor heute schon schlecht gefüllt?" _["You idiot, that's not enough!" "Did you feel bad before today?"]

Gilbert took his time to say the answer. It wasn't that he didn't know. It was more that he didn't want to admit it. Ludwig still clutched his shoulders. The entire living room tensed as they waited for his reply.

"_…Ja. Ein bisschen._" ["…Yes. A little."]

Ludwig froze before he shook his head and pulled him back into a hug again. Basch was listening from a distance as he tried to coax Gilbird off of the china cabinet, busying himself with comparatively trivial tasks to cope with the shock. Feliciano still stood terrified and rooted to the spot, a bowl clutched tightly in his arms. "Ludwig? Ludwig, what's going on? Is Gilbert okay? Y-you know I don't speak German, please, someone tell me what's happening…" He started to cry, sniffling a little and gripping the bowl until his knuckles went white.

"_Ich kann jetzt aufstehen_," Gilbert said. ["I can stand up now."] Ludwig rose to his feet, pulling Gil up with him and leading him to the couch. The rest of them followed, almost mechanically.

Feliciano tugged on Ludwig's shirt. "Ludwig, _please, _tell me what's happening, Luddy, please, I'm scared! This doesn't have anything to do with a few years ago, right? Right?"

Ludwig turned to his boyfriend. "Gilbert was having trouble breathing now. It's okay, he's okay now. But I'm thinking we're going to visit a doctor first thing in the morning," he replied, looking over to his older brother. Gilbert stared back, empty of emotion or maybe just overwhelmed by it, with his head balanced on his hand. Roderich moved forward tentatively, and Basch, having finally given up on Gilbird, came around and gripped Roderich's forearm, watching Gilbert with a stern look on his face. Gil looked back up at everyone, morose. He liked being the center of attention, sure, but not like this. Not like this.

It was okay, though. It would be okay, right? "It's fine," he said in English, so Feliciano could stop worrying too. "I'm good now. It was just a little cough, guys, it's all okay!" He laughed, waving them away with his hand nonchalantly, but stopped himself before he could start hacking again.

One by one, faces grim, they peeled away and out of the living room. Not to do anything in particular, probably just to leave. To pretend they could forget about what just happened. Within a few minutes, his brother was the only one remaining.

"First thing tomorrow morning, we're going to the hospital. OK?" he said, his eyebrows furrowed. Gilbert hated seeing his younger brother worry. He was supposed to protect him from these sorts of things.

"…fine," he conceded, running a hand through his hair. At that, Ludwig let out another deep sigh and left the room, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen and disappearing inside, probably to comfort Feliciano. It felt like he was rubbing it in his face, almost, that he could let out nice long sighs like that. It wasn't fair.

He considered texting Francis, or Antonio. Maybe they could help him take his mind off of things. But he chose to sink back into the memories instead, of cigarette smoke and harsh fluorescent lights and beeping machines and white uniforms, endless corridors and countless turns and nothing but white, just plain, stark white, everywhere. From atop the cabinet, Gilbird began to tweet and sing a feeble birdsong, but gave up after the first few notes and resigned himself to quiet.

Finally the living room was silent again, but in all the wrong ways.

* * *

* In Fahrenheit that's about 82 degrees.

** ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

*** I should probably let you know that this isn't a real word. But Shakespeare made up his own words, and now millions of high school students are forced to memorize them for vocabulary quizzes. If that's not inspiring I don't know what is.

* * *

**Screw France, I'm the one who needs a calendar.**

**Speaking of calendars-I'm thinking I'm going to ditch the schedule. I'm still looking to get chapters up about once every 1-2 weeks, but this way I'll be able to edit my writing and make sure I've included everything I want (foreshadowing and whatnot) without feeling rushed. Plus, now I can work on other stories without a guilty conscience. (Ludwig's Daycare has grown to over 6000 words-and it's barely halfway done.)**

**Also-I'm most likely going to rewrite Chapter 9. I read it over at a time when I was a little more sane, and it was awful, to say the least. **

**About this chapter-I'm genuinely happy with it! Although I feel like I'm going to tear my own heart out writing this story. ;_;**

**In other news, I read _Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart _earlier this week, went through a 22-hour long ethical crisis about the nature of human beings and the glory and pain of war, discovered my new favorite song is Heaven Knows by Five for Fighting, and developed an obsession with planes. (Mustangs, to be specific.)**

**As always-reviews are always appreciated, and thank you all for reading! (And sticking with me through this mess. I can't thank you enough, to be honest.)**


	11. What It Is

He was scribbling furiously, his nose inches from the paper that had been perfectly aligned with the edge of his desk, and just reaching for his calculator to finish off the equation when his phone buzzed.

He tried to ignore it, wanted to ignore it, but his self-control all but vanished into thin air when the screen lit up with Francis' name. He let his pencil drop as an arm shot out to snatch his cellphone, the pencil rolling off the side of the cheap wooden desk and falling soundlessly on the dull green carpeting.

F: and? how is your lovely cubicle?

A: Quite comfy, thank you very much. And air-conditioned.

F: pffft, air conditioning. you accountants are weak

A: I'd like to see YOU take a whack at some of the mathematical problems I solve on a daily basis.

F: no, thank you, much too boring for my taste. i don't understand how you deal with such mind-numbing work on a daily basis

He would never even try and explain it to Francis - a hopeless romantic with a flair for the dramatic, he wouldn't even pretend to understand - but Arthur kind of _liked _his dull, run-of-the-mill 9-to-5 work as an accountant. The thing about math was that it was consistent. There were set rules, and those rules were not broken no matter the circumstances. No exceptions, at least not with the sorts of figures he was working with. Math was a universal language, something that was discovered and explored in nearly every culture in existence. The consistency provided him with a sense of security, and he could sink into pages full of equations and calculations for hours, content as he solved one logical puzzle after the other. It was a relief, a respite from the unpredictability of the life that buzzed by at a breakneck pace outside his cubicle. It brought him serenity and a dependable system, something he had never been able to find in people.

A: I don't find it mind-numbing.

F: that is just PROOF of how boring you are

A: Look, I have to get back to work. Was this about anything important?

F: no, just bugging you. enjoy your mathematics, matthieu and alfred and i are all walking to the park

It was over that fast? Something sunk in the pit of his stomach. But he shouldn't feel like that…His hand trembled. The phone screen shook, making it hard to type out a response.

A: Have fun. Keep an eye on Alfred

Francis didn't respond. Arthur slid the phone across the surface of the desk, away from him, until it smashed against the wall violently and knocked over a small cup of mechanical pencils. Arthur was completely snapped out of his groove now. He picked up the mechanical pencils scattered across the floor one-by-one, wanting to tear his hair out in frustration.

He _knew _what was happening. But admitting what was happening would only make it true. He wasn't supposed to feel like this. He wasn't supposed to feel like the sun was emerging for the first time in months whenever he saw Francis' name in his notifications. He wasn't supposed to notice how his shirts fit his shoulders so nicely, or how he sometimes forget to trim his five-o-clock shadow. He wasn't supposed to boil with anger when he found out about Francis' latest romantic interest. Francis was a man, no matter how long and silky his damn hair was.

Arthur dumped the pencils into their cup and collapsed into his chair. What would his mother say? Well, he knew the answer to that. It's not like it would have been the first time. What about God, then? What would God think? He let his head hang over the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling, lolling his arms over the armrests. Did God even care about him anymore? He shut his eyes. He was probably completely forsaken at this point. The church preached forgiveness, until you kissed a boy behind your catholic school's gym.

Who did he have left, really? Who could he depend on? He had a son. But Alfred was depending on _him._

_You have Francis, _his thoughts whispered.

_Yeah, but I shouldn't,_ he thought back.

* * *

It was a really hot day to be at the park, but Alfred had been insistent. Eventually, Matthew went along with it, and then Francis had been outvoted. So they packed up a few sandwiches, a little brie, and some carrot sticks, and set off for the nearby park. Within a few minutes, Alfred was complaining that his feet were sore. But Mattie pointed out a toy store window, and he completely forgot about his feet. They stared at the display for a good 5 minutes, and once Francis had finally convinced them to keep moving, wouldn't stop talking about it for the remaining 15 blocks.

As soon as they arrived, Mattie and Alfred made a beeline for the playground. Francis found a bench and sat down with his notebook, pulling a pen out of his bag. But he felt reluctant to get started. The logical part of his brain groaned as he pulled out his cellphone to text Gilbert, but that didn't stop him.

F: salut, mon ami :0

G: oh, hey francis, whats up?

F: w/ matthieu and alfred at the park. should be writing but i'm too lazy, haha

G: cool

G: listen, i'm kinda busy right now, dont really have time 2 text

F: oh? qu'est-ce que c'est?

F: is it elizabeta ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

G: No. i gtg, talk to you later

F: alright then, i'll just sit here and suffer

Francis frowned. He wasn't used to getting brushed off like that.

Whatever. He'd text Antonio instead.

F: toooonniiiiiiiiiii

T: Yes, francis?

F: gil won't talk to me

F: what's up with him lately, anyway? it's like he's always busy

T: Maybe elizabeta?

F: no, i asked

T: Well, i don't think he would hide anything from us if it was important.

F: true

T: What are u doing right now anyway?

F: i'm with matthieu and alfred the park

F: i mean, technically i should be writing, but i'm just not in the mood

T: Ohhh, that's tough

T: What's ur story even about?

F: it's romance

T: of course

F: ta gueule

F: basically this one woman works in a tattoo parlor and there's this man across the street who works in a flower shop, and he's quite aggravating and annoys the hell out of her but in the end she falls in love with his stupid hair and stupid clothes and stupid tea addiction

T: ….

T: Interesting?

F: what do you mean, interesting?

T: I mean, the flower shop guy kind of reminds me of arthur, but i thought you hated him…

F: i DO hate him

F: would you like me to LIST all the things i hate about him?

T: that's ok, i've heard it already

T: Just kinda weird that you would write a guy you hate into your romance novel, of all things

F: it's complicated. it's probably a coincidence anyway

T: Sure it is.

F: you can talk to me about romance when you finally get it together with lovino

T: FRANICS

T: FOR TEH LAST F UC KING TIMME

F: ;)

F: on that note, i DO have a deadline to meet.

T: i'm so glad i motivated you to actually do your work

F: don't give yourself so much credit. Ttyl

T: i'll try and find out where gil went

F: GOOD. fill me in when you know

T: sure. ttyl

F: adieu

Francis shut off his phone, exasperated. Well that got him nowhere. He picked up his pen again, bit the end, trying to think of what to write next. Let's see…there was a list of questions he had to answer in the next few chapters, and certain plot holes to fix, and he still needed to tie up some loose ends in the endings for the background characters…

He flipped through his notebook pages, scanning the scribbling on each one. He reread his notes on the main character, searching for inspiration. (He didn't find it.) So Francis moved on to the next character, and the next…

_He has dirty blond hair, usually messy. Very obstinate, annoying but in a charming way. He stole his closet from a 60 year old. Not hyper-masculine. Has a probably unhealthy chain-drinking habit when it comes to tea…_

Francis groaned. That goddamned love interest. This character would be the death of him. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking the pen out of his mouth and bringing it to the paper, but pulling back again. _Just write. Anything. Like those blurbs they made you do back in high school._

_Come _on. _Anything in your mind. Just scribble it down._

His hand stayed still. The ink began to bleed into a larger and larger dot on the page.

_You can change the character! It's not that difficult. Give him brown hair instead of dirty blonde, or something. Make him fashionable. He could drink coffee instead of tea. Tea is stupid anyway._

It was no _use! _The love interest was set in stone. Every aspect of his personality and dress and appearance was Arthur Kirkland, all over, everywhere. He couldn't change it, no matter how hard he tried. If he was that desperate to do away with that snippy, obstinate, opinionated, plain, intelligent, clever, weirdly-good looking…forget it, there was no way to get rid of him! He'd have to scrap the entire story; start over from scratch. It was the only way to erase Arthur from his writing for good.

Francis thought about it. He could rewrite a completely different novel. One where the man running the flower shop was kind and warm. One where he was muscular and toned and with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. One where he smiled and gave the main character a flattering compliment and a grin every time she entered the shop.

But he didn't want to.

It wasn't the same. Any other story would be bland. The flower shop owner could be sexy and charismatic and friendly and flirty and personable and everything a woman could ask for, and it would be boring. Francis had poured out his heart and soul into this one. That was how Arthur must have ended up on the notebook pages in the first place. The matter was settled: Francis' readers were doomed to fall in love with Arthur, page-by-page, day-by-day. Just like him.

Wait, what?

* * *

In the end, Arthur had managed to just barely fulfill his client's file in time. He was tired, and still angry at himself and at the world in general, and all he wanted to do was go home. Arthur gathered up his things, checking his phone for any new messages. When he saw his home screen blank, he squeezed the off button so hard the phone shut down.

The London traffic didn't exactly help his mood. Stuck at yet another red light, he slouched in his driver's seat, looking bored out the window. Two teens leaned against a dull beige building, handing a cigarette back and forth between each other. Their hair was dyed and shaved in swirls and stripes, their clothes fake leather and black or sporting the union jack. Heavy boots on their feet, leggings and shirts with holes and tears. Piercings on just about every surface you could see, and probably ones you couldn't. One of them had snake bites, two rings encircling their bottom lip on either side.

Arthur flipped down the sun visor and slid open the mirror. He poked around a little until…yup. Still there. Two perfect holes, one on each side.

Did he even _have_ his snake bites anymore? It's possible he could have thrown them out by now, and forgotten about it. Or maybe they were still hiding in his jewelry box somewhere. Not that he would know where it was. Dammit. He drummed on the steering wheel, more impatient than ever for the light to turn green.

As soon as he arrived home, he hurried up the stairs, unlocked his apartment, and raced to his bedroom, poking through the various boxes and bottles scattered atop his dresser, but to no avail. So he moved on to the closet. 10 minutes later, there were clothes all over the floor, and a small, lilac cardboard box was sat in his lap. He shook off the lid and placed it next to him on the bed, sifting his fingers through the mess of metal. Heh. A small smile snuck onto Arthur's face.

He got up, walked over to the dresser, above which hung a mirror. Arthur picked out a piercing, examined it, and decided it was one of his snake bites. Tentatively, he poked around the hole a little, until he finally got up the guts to insert it.

A small stab of pain made him drop the piercing, where it clattered onto the dresser. He cursed, picked it up, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. A pretty boring, 26-year-old in a collared shirt looked back. Not someone you would give a second glance on the street. Someone 16-year-old Arthur would have despised.

Once again, he tried to slide the metal bit in. It hurt, the hole having grown smaller over the years, but settled in a few seconds. He fastened it into place, took a good long look at himself -

And went for the other one.

With the snake bites in place, he moved on to his ears. One, two, three, four, and a cuff on the left, one, two, three on the right. A small bit in his right eyebrow. Hmmm.

Where was his old Union Jack tank?

Arthur rifled through his closet, adding to the mess on the floor. A pair of ripped black jeans were the first to appear, and after a good while of hopping around and struggling to close the clasp at the front, they replaced his khakis. Next came a belt, with shiny silver grommets. After 15 minutes his Union Jack tank was unearthed, and the stiff collared shirt tossed to the floor. He found cuffs and chokers and worn black boots and all sorts of things he'd forgotten he owned. When he finally looked himself over in the mirror again, he looked almost like a different person. But something was missing.

All Arthur usually needed from the bathroom cabinet was toothpaste or shaving cream. But crammed in the very, very back, lay makeup.

He examined the case of eyeliner. This stuff was at least 4 years old, if not more. Was it really safe to apply to his face?

Arthur shrugged. Whatever. Punks probably didn't care about makeup expiration dates. With that settled, he picked up the pencil and made two not-too-shabby outlines of his eyes. He spiked his hair up with a little gel that he found by the eyeliner. When he stepped back to give himself another look over, he was finally satisfied.

The person who stood in front of him wouldn't be seen dead in a stuffy cubicle in downtown London. He'd be in the mosh pit at a rock concert. Or vandalizing a train. Or something equally hardcore. Yeah.

He felt like maybe he should be embarrassed, but for once, Arthur actually felt a little self-confident. It was a nice feeling. _Although,_ he thought, glancing at the clock, _even punks have to eat dinner._

Arthur walked down the hall to the kitchen and surveyed the contents of the fridge. There wasn't a whole lot; he'd have to go shopping for food again soon. But for now, frozen pizza would do. Alfred would love that.

Speaking of Alfred, where was he? Francis should have been back to drop them off and hang out for a bit over an hour ago. He set out the pizzas on the counter to defrost and started a search of the house for his phone, which was still lying on a table in the entryway. It booted up eventually, and within a few seconds a text from Francis appeared.

F: lost track of time with the boys at the park. be back in 30 or so minutes :o

The text read as being sent 15 minutes ago.

A: Alright, got it.

He set the phone back down and sighed, deciding to leave it in the entryway again instead of clinging to it, checking every 2 minutes for a reply. Talk about being desperate. He resolved to go make dinner instead, and without even setting off the smoke alarm. Ha! He'd show that stuck-up Frenchman how to cook.

It was 20 minutes later, when the pizzas were barely charred and sitting in the oven on low heat to stay warm, when the doorbell rang. Arthur forgot all about the food and hustled over to the door (until one of the floorboards squeaked underfoot, and he slowed down so Francis wouldn't think he was that eager to see him). Arthur checked the peephole, saw his sons and a tall, handsome blonde guy, and unlocked the door.

"Daddy!" Alfred yelled, wrapping himself around his father's leg. Mattie followed suit, albeit more quietly.

"Hey, little man, how was the park?" Arthur asked, smiling.

"…You look different," Mattie pointed out, staring up at his face.

Alfred peered at Arthur's face. "Yeah, he's right! You look cool! What happened?"

Arthur looked between the two, and then up at Francis, who wore a stunned expression. Slowly it dawned on him. Shit, shit, shit, he'd gotten carried away, he should have changed, _goddamnit._

"I, um," he tried.

"You - " Francis began, but Arthur cut him off.

"I'm so sorry I look so ridiculous, or that you had to see me like this, I…I'll just go change," he stammered, backtracking towards his room.

"No! Um, no, you don't have to do that," Francis burst out. Arthur watched him with an odd expression, not sure what he was thinking. "Really. It's not…" He straightened up, tried to pull himself together. Rubbing the back of his neck, he spoke more casually. "You don't have to change, it looks fine."

"I…" Arthur looked at him one more time, unsure if he was being made fun of. But either way, he stopped heading for the hall, and slowly walked back towards his sons.

"C'mon, Dad, why're you dressed so cool?" Alfred pushed.

Mattie nodded. "Kuma wants to know."

"Kuma wants to know!" Alfred repeated, smiling.

"Ah, I just saw some kids on the street while I was driving home, and remembered I had this stuff lying around. Not a big deal, really. But it's a nice change." He smiled back.

"I think it's awesome! You should keep it," Alfred said. "So what's for dinner? We're hungry!"

"Why thank you. Dinner's going to be pizza, which as it turns out is already done."

"Awesome! Come on, Mattie!" The three of them headed into the kitchen. Francis stayed standing at the door, watching Arthur and thinking.

"Can I have five slices?" Alfred asked, holding out his plate.

"Now that seems like a bit much. How about 1 for starters? You can have more once you've finished that," Arthur suggested, sliding a slice onto Alfred's plate.

"But I _know_ I can eat five slices!" Alfred insisted.

"Not until you finish that one. Now scoot over, it's Mattie's turn."

"Hmmph."

Francis stared at the homey scene, the cogs and gears whirring in his head. Something warm bloomed in his chest. Something different from seeing a pretty woman on the street, or a handsome man in a magazine. A smile crept onto his face without him noticing as he watched Arthur bustle about and around, serving pizza and arguing with Alfred over serving sizes. He kind of wanted to hug him, a little bit, maybe. Run his fingers through that messy blonde hair. He wondered what it would be like to wake up and see that face every day.

Oh. OH. Oh wow. Okay. Was he really?...Francis felt his face turning redder and redder the longer he looked.

"Um, Matthieu? Would you like to sleep over tonight?"

Mattie's face lit up. "Really?" He turned to Arthur. "Can I? Please?"

"Yeah, let him stay over!" Alfred added his two cents.

"Of course you can," Arthur told Mattie, but threw Francis a look. He grinned sheepishly in response, but he needed to get out of that apartment and away from Arthur for a few minutes.

"Let me just run back to our apartment and get your things, okay, Matthieu?"

"Okay, Papa! _Salut!_"

"_Salut, mon ours_," Francis said quickly, then backed out of the entryway.

"Ah, Francis, wait," Arthur called, walking over to him.

Francis poked his head back in. "What is it?"

"Are you eating now, or when you get back?" he asked, still holding the pizza cutter.

"Oh, it's fine, I'll get something from home while I'm there," Francis said, not about to do any such thing.

Arthur frowned. "I made too much. You're eating some. Now or later?"

"Really, it's fine. Don't worry about my eating." Francis waved it off with his hand.

"Now or later?" Arthur pushed. Francis faltered.

"G-goodness, no need to be so insistent!"

Arthur looked over his shoulder at the boys, who were already situated at the table. His gaze returned to Francis' face, and he lowered his voice. "…Please eat with us. Francis. A slice of pizza won't kill you."

Francis was irritated, and confused. He'd felt so passionate towards this man two minutes ago, and now he was pissing him off. It wasn't his business what he ate.

"Please. For Matthew," Arthur tried again.

Francis stared Arthur once more in the eyes, but lost. "Fine. I'll stay and eat," he conceded. "But after I fetch Matthieu's things first."

Arthur nodded, and Francis made to leave. But before he made it out into the hall, Arthur spoke up again.

"You…you look nice today." His face was red, and he spun around and walked back over to the table as soon as the words escaped his mouth. But he'd said it.

He'd said he looked nice. Francis stood stunned in the doorway, before finally backing up and closing the door behind him. He looked at his face in a window. Yup. He was blushing like hell. Francis shook his head and started down the stairs, thoughts racing all the while. He'd called him nice, and he'd lit something in Francis that wasn't there before. Was he seriously in love? With Arthur Kirkland, of all people? That was impossi…well, maybe not as impossible as he thought.

It was a little cooler outdoors, now that the sun had almost set. He shoved his hands in his pockets. This was so _weird._ He claimed to be this expert on love, the resident hopeless romantic, when…when he'd never really felt something like _this_ before. It was a little alien, to see a person and feel like wherever they were was home. Arthur was not especially good-looking, by Hollywood standards, nor was he hot in any sense of the word. And yet Francis felt the overwhelming desire to be close to him. That just didn't make sense. What was love, anyway? And how did he know this was it?

Because he knew. He knew it was love. He didn't know how or why he knew, but it struck him that there was nothing on Earth that could compare to this feeling. He had no words to describe the tug on his heartstrings when he looked at Arthur, the joy that exploded inside his chest when he saw his name light up his phone screen, the want to protect him and tell him he was beautiful when he put himself down. He yearned for their fights and their quarrels, because arguing with him was half the fun. He was so intelligent and clever and strong of mind. So Francis decided it could be nothing but love, the word he'd tossed around for so long without knowing what it meant.

He, Francis M. Bonnefoy, was in love with Arthur Kirkland.

And the very thought of that made him smile.

* * *

**IT'S FINALLY DONE.**

**Oh my god, I thought this chapter would never get finished. But I'm so glad it did, because I can't wait to see everyone's reviews and talk to you all again. **

**I felt really sappy writing the romantic bits. But I guess that's what I get for writing fanfiction. Oh well.**

**It's so good to be back! I'm going to reply to reviews that I didn't get to answer before, too. No worries.**

**As for updates - I'm still shooting for once a week. I'm in high school now, with all Honors level courses, so I don't know about time, but my mood has definitely improved with the cooler weather. (And I'm slowly replacing my closet with mens' clothes, which has helped a lot.) But this time I have no time limit to work around, so while I can't upload from my student laptop (effing web censors) I will be able to write whenever and wherever.**

**In other news, I'm starting a new story! It's Ameliet, called The Housekeeper. I have really high hopes for this one, so I would encourage everyone to check it out. **

**That's all! Don't forget to review, and thank you for reading!**


	12. Runaway

It was nearly a week later, and Arthur was _still _kicking himself over that stupid, stupid…God! Where did that even come from? "You look nice today." It was a miracle his voice hadn't cracked while he said that. Woulda served him right. Was he _trying _to give himself over to the…to the…the _gay_? Gay. What an awful word. He hated it.

And now that bloody son of a bitch was back in his house again. He didn't have a choice, really. They needed to plan Alfred and Matthew's birthday party. The boys deserved that much. Even if they had _gays _for parents.

He really ought to go to church again. But honestly, he'd probably just end using the Lord's name in vain in His own house.

At least Francis seemed to be in a good mood. Smiling, twirling his hair, laughing at Arthur's smart-ass comments, making smart-ass comments back.

"So—I'll be baking the cake, of course," Francis said while scribbling on a notepad. He bumped his hip against Arthur and twirled across the kitchen to go check the cabinets for ingredients.

"Hm," Arthur grunted in reply, not really wanting to take on the task himself, anyway.

"And we'll have to get decorations somehow…what do you think? A banner? Those glittery cardboard letters are so tacky, our boys deserve better, for sure. Maybe I'll make something. Or you can? _S'il te plait?_" He looked over his shoulder and smiled a smile that was almost enough to melt Arthur's heart right then and there.

_Our boys…_

"I can try, but I can't promise you anything. I work a desk job," he grumbled. Inside his chest, his heart was still a goopy, molten mess. Francis had _way_ too much control over him, and God, did he hate it – but another part of him couldn't care less.

"You had better try! These are your children! _Alors—nous avons besoin de lait, farine, un peu de sucre…_"

"Quit muttering in that froggy language of yours!" Arthur snapped at him, arms crossed against his chest.

"Oh, _tais-toi, je sais déjà que tu parles parfait français._" [Oh, shut up, I already know that you speak perfect French.] He waved his free hand at Arthur as he continued scrawling, not even bothering to look up. Beams of sunlight streamed through the window, lighting up the path of the dust floating through the air and transforming his hair into tumbling waves of spun gold.

"_Ce n'est pas _parfait…" [It's not _perfect_…] Arthur mumbled. He uncrossed his arms to roll up his sleeves, before realizing he was wearing a T-shirt and recrossing them.

Francis finally looked up at him with one eyebrow raised, but couldn't hold it for more than 5 seconds before bursting into laughter.

"What? What did I do now?" Arthur yelled, totally lost.

"Nothing! Nothing, you're just too funny," Francis replied, still laughing and leaning on the counter for support.

Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation and turned to go to the living room, but a smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. Francis was so busy bustling about, he needed to find something useful to do to…he walked over to the window, groaning as he tried to pry it open. Finally he managed, the sill sliding upwards with a bang. Arthur heard a yelp from the kitchen and grinned.

The air was just as muggy outside as in, but a slight breeze was pulling through the room now. He went from one to the next, sliding them all open and praying not too many bugs found their way in. As he was working on the fourth window, someone slapped him on the head with a notepad.

"_Méchant! _You meanie!"

"Aww, did I scare you?" Arthur spun around to find his face inches from Francis'. Woah, okay then.

"Of course not! As if you could scare someone as courageous and brave as me," Francis boasted, flipping his hair. "I'm practically a modern Prince Charming."

Arthur smirked. "I was the one who saved your ass from that fly in the bathroom, remember? Or does Prince Charming have a conveniently selective memory?"

"It was buzzing all over the place!" Francis spluttered in his defense. Still, not even a foot between their faces. "You would have been terrified too, something so loud and unhygienic intruding on what should be the most private part of a man's home!"

"A _real _man would have just grown a pair and slapped it with a slipper instead of throwing a shampoo bottle—which completely missed, by the way—and hiding in the corner of the shower."

"Nonsense!"

"You were lucky I came in there to take care of it. You would have been cowering in that tub all night."

"Oh, please."

"You sounded like a little girl. I thought Matthew or Alfred had gotten hurt."

"I – "

"What did you do about bugs before you had me around, anyway?" Arthur's cocky grin was a mile wide.

"I don't need to put up with this sort of verbal slander, you know," Francis replied, gesticulating with his hands for dramatic effect. Arthur snorted, which made Francis laugh, and that in turn made Arthur laugh even harder. Clouds drifted across the sky outside, and the sun lay bare every plane and curve of Arthur's face.

_Does he know how beautiful he is when he lets himself laugh? _Francis wondered, letting his hand drop as his chuckling subsided.

Eventually, they had both quieted down, and simply stood there, looking at each other. Maybe even admiring each other. The colors of the room around them were saturated, painted in watercolor with a lazy brush, lilting across the canvas. But they - they were special; they were made of oil paint, of soft curves and sharp corners, highlights and shadows. They each wondered if it was possible for the other to be the most beautiful thing they'd ever seen.

The city is never silent. Logically, the din of gridlocked cars and crowded pavements must have floated in through the windows on the songs of the birds nesting on the rooftops. But inside that living room, for a moment, they shared a world that was neither here nor there, and didn't really have to be.

Can you believe it? Francis didn't want to break this silence. Perhaps, there were some things that could be expressed without words.

But he hadn't learned his lesson quite yet.

"…I suppose we should get back to work, shouldn't we?"

"Ah—oh. Yeah, I guess so."

Their eyes met for a little while longer. But Arthur ended up turning it into a competition—he needed an excuse for staring into those eyes for so long—and so Francis broke the contact, turning around to head back to the kitchen.

Arthur knew he'd regret this later, giving in to his sinful thoughts, but he couldn't help it. And he didn't want to. And now he was following him back into the kitchen, the object of his lust and his love, the source of all his evil and the source of all that was good.

"So - " Francis picked up from where they left off, taking his pen and making more notes. "I'll handle the food, you'll handle the decorations – with my help, of course."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I have at least 30% more taste than you give me credit for."

"Ha! Taste in what?" Francis laughed.

"Um—tea, for one thing!" Arthur tried.

"Oh God, you and your tea." Francis rolled his eyes playfully.

"And music! I have fantastic taste in music," he continued, proud of himself for that one.

"Ugh, that awful rock stuff?"

"There is _so _much more to it than just 'awful rock stuff'. And you call _me_ uncultured."  
"It's not my fault if I prefer actual melodies over screaming with amplifier feedback in the background!"

"It's not just screaming! Are you telling me that you, the king of all that is ridiculously, unabashedly French, don't have an appreciation for French rock?"

"French rock is a music genre?" Francis asked, unconvinced.

"Surely you've heard of Johnny Hallyday?"

"That name does not sound even _remotely _French to me."

"Well that's because his real name is Jean-Phillipe Smet, but that's besides the point. He's quite literally one of the most successful music artists of all time. You've _never _heard of him?"

Francis smirked a little. "Can't say that I have."

"Well what about _Les Chats Sauvages_? _Twist à Saint Tropez_? Does that ring a bell?"

"Nooo," he drawled.

"Not even _Les Thugs_?"

Francis shook his head.

"No?! Maybe something more recent then – _Noir Désir_? They're from the 90s, their album _Tostaky_*is still selling 20 years after it got released."

Francis had sat down backwards on a chair, resting his chin on his hands laid across the top of the seatback. "…I've heard of Stromae," he tried, grinning devilishly.

Oh, if looks could kill. Francis winced under Arthur's glare, but he was obviously not really mad. Just having fun.

Arthur shook his head. "I swear. I even have records…although they're mostly cassette tapes or CDs, or ripped to my library by now."

Francis guffawed. "Cassette tapes?! What, is your television still in black and white too?"

"It's retro!"

"It's outdated."

"See? No taste whatsoever in neat old technology."

"Fine, I'll give you that one," Francis grunted.

"I wonder if I still have tabs for any Johnny Hallyday songs…" Arthur mused to himself. He tapped out a chord progression on the countertop and hummed along. Francis watched in interest.

"You know, I've never actually heard you play," Francis piped up.

"Oh…why, do you want to?"

"You seem passionate about it…don't you have a guitar?"

"I have two."

"Why would you need two guitars? Is one of them acoustic?"

"No, they're both electric."

"Well then what's the point in having two?! Aren't they all basically the same?"

"That's like asking why _you_ would need two kinds of red wine, if they're basically the same!"

"Oh my God!" Francis brought a hand to his chest. "I had no idea," he whispered, humbled.

Arthur nodded enthusiastically. "You see?"

"Will you play something for me, then?" he pushed.

"I thought you didn't care for rock."

"Well, you're not going to scream at me and play some garbled electric mess, right?"

"I told you, that's not what rock is about!"

"Then show me!"

"I might be able to remember a French one…" he grumbled, turning to leave the kitchen. "Here, follow me," he said, gesturing with his hand down the hall. Francis got up from his chair and followed him until he turned right into a rather small room. Francis peeked around the door frame before realizing that it was, in fact, Arthur's bedroom. _Oh bordel!_

Arthur was already hunched over the mess of extension cords and power strips on the floor near the outlet. He traced each cord back to its respective object, then got up to check the amp's settings. He twisted and fiddled with a few knobs with names that meant nothing to Francis, who was looking on with interest anyway. Eventually he came to a decision, standing up and placing his hands on his hips with a satisfied nod, then turned to pick up the guitar and sit down cross-legged on the floor.

"…You can sit on the bed, you know," he told Francis, who was still standing in the doorway. Francis nodded and hurriedly sat down. God, normally he was so smooth! Did his tact fly out the window along with his common sense?

Arthur thought for a moment. "…No, not that one…" he mumbled. His fingers tapped the frets idly.

Francis waited patiently.

Arthur started, strumming the strings once, then twice, three, four times, and then he launched into the real introduction. Soon the chords began, and his voice joined in as well.

"_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now…I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven kno-ows, I'm miserable now…Iiii-n m-yyy liii-fe…_"

His hands faltered a little and he stopped singing, readjusting before he tried again.

"_I'm miserable now…Iiii-n m-yyy liii-fe_ – " It happened again, and he let out a growl.

"F#...major…ah, dammit." He set down the guitar, and turned to look at a stack of books and papers, but gave up. "Here, I'll play one I know better." He set down the electric and turned off the amp, sliding open the closet door and pulling out his acoustic instead. "You'll like it, it's in French." Arthur got ready, singing under his breath, "_Mi-chelle, ma belle, sont des mots…_"

"Oh, of course that's the only French song you know," Francis snorted, rolling his eyes.

Arthur knit his eyebrows together, not even offended. "No, I know more. Actually, that one's too cheesy anyway. Hold on." He dug around through a folder stuffed full of papers, humming a tune that…well, quite frankly, just sounded flat-out depressing.

"This one sounds too sad!"

"Hush up and wait until the lyrics kick in, then!" Arthur chided, strumming out a chord and jumping into the introduction. Francis leaned forward a little without realizing. He was picking out a fairly simple melody, one phrase in a high pitch, one in a low, but it sounded like two voices caught up in a conversation.

Arthur took in a breath and began. "_C'est le temps de l'amour, le__ temps des copains, et de l'aventure…_

"_Quand le temps va et vient, on ne pense à rien malgré ses blessures…_"

Well…that was not quite what he had been expecting. Francis listened closer to the lyrics, beginning to lose himself in the music.

"_Car le temps de l'amour, c'est long et c'est court, ça dure toujours, on s'en souvient…_

Another breath, as the bridge began.

"_On se dit qu'a vingt ans on est le roi du monde, et qu'éternellement il y aura dans nos yeux, tout le ciel beau…_"

The chorus came again as Francis' eyes drifted shut.

"_Un beau jour c'est l'amour et le cœur bat plus vite…_"

_And the heart beats even faster…_Francis' heart was doing just that.

"_Car la vie suit son cours et l'on est tout heureux d'être amoureux…_"

He sang the chorus once more. It ended with him repeating the final phrase, over and over. "_On s'en souvient, on s'en souvient…_

"_On s'en souvient._"

_We will remember, we will remember, we will remember…_

"…I like that song," Francis mused. Arthur simply nodded; he looked kind of tired.

"If you don't mind me asking, why do you love your music so much?" Francis asked from his perch on the bed.

"It's a way of…god, that's so corny. It's self expression." He gently placed the guitar back in the closet, leaning it against the wall. "I suppose it sounds nice? And I feel like I'm doing something, playing the guitar…being useful. Contributing something beautiful. Even if it's not…" he trailed off.

"I thought it was beautiful," Francis mumbled.

"And also – I mean, I've tried to write my own lyrics, but I don't think writing is really my thing. I'm never quite able to capture what I'm about, but other artists manage to do it perfectly. So maybe, by them lending me their words, I can find a voice for myself too," he added.

…Francis wished he'd paid more attention to the lyrics.

"Did you say what you wanted to?"

Arthur smiled to himself. "…Not quite." He looked around the room, then walked back out the door and into the hall. Francis took one last look as well. He wanted to commit everything about this to memory.

"Are you coming, or are you being a perv?" Arthur yelled. Francis bristled and hurried out, back to the kitchen.

Arthur was sat at the table, scrolling through something on his phone. Francis walked in and sat down across from him, waiting until he shut off his phone and set it down on the table. They sat in silence again, this one less comfortable than the one in the living room.

"'_And one is completely content to be in love.._.'"

Arthur visibly startled. "Excuse me?" he scoffed incredulously.

"Isn't that what you were saying?" Francis' gaze met his, hard and questioning.

"I – well, um –"

"Who are you in love with, exactly?"

Arthur was lost for words. He should _never_ have opened up, should never have let the evil parts of him win, oh God oh God oh God – "Are you saying that I'm gay?" he asked, outraged.

That wasn't quite the reaction Francis was expecting. "Uh – I mean, as long as we're on the same page about who I'm implying you're in love with, then I suppose, by extension, it would make you gay, or at least attracted to men…"

"Well I'm _not!_ How dare you come into my house, and – and accuse me of such things - "

"Being gay is not a bad thing," Francis stated, suspicion nagging at his mind.

"Ye – it – that's not the point!"

"You seem to think it is."

"I'm fucking straight!"

"Why are you so worked up about this?" Francis' mouth twisted into a deeper and deeper frown with every word.

"You can't just say that to people, that's why!"

"You said it was your way of speaking!"

"Ye – no! No no no no no!" Arthur sputtered, going red in the face.

"Who are you so happy to be in love with, then? If it's not me."

"_Nobody!_" Arthur hissed.

"_C'est conneries_," he growled.

"What do you mean, 'bullshit'? You can't just – I'm not some – some fu…fagh…" He couldn't quite bring himself say the word.

Francis' eyebrows shot up. "Oh, _wow. _Okay, guess I'm not welcome here." He put his hands up in mock surrender.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, you're not, genius. How bleedin' long'd it take you to figure that out?"

"Apparently it took you longer, you _homophobe_!"

"_CASSE-TOI DE M'APPARTEMENT!_" [GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT!] he roared, blinking rapidly. He couldn't cry here, not now…he was so little of a man already.

Francis stood up and brushed past him. "As you wish," he spoke bitterly, walking to the door with tears on the edges of his eyes. He grabbed his phone and said, "I'll pick up the boys and drop off Alfred here." Arthur couldn't ignore the tremor in his voice.

And then he was gone.

And Arthur fell apart.

He waited until he saw Francis walk into the Tube from his window. Glancing at the clock, he noted that it would still be an hour before the boys' playdate even ended. Arthur hurried to the hall, snatched his keys off the dresser and checked his eyes in the mirror.

Red-rimmed. _Pathetic._

He grabbed the keys, locked the door, hustled down the steps, and made it to the outside. Now what?

It had been so long. First it was punishment, then it was rebellion, then failure, and up until now, fear. Everything that had kept him away from the church, and now the one time he wanted to go, he realized he didn't know where.

Well, it was London, birthplace of the Crown's Christian identity crisis– he was bound to find someplace, no matter what direction he walked in.

He wandered, and he wandered, and he wandered some more, passing new builds of cement and older ones of brick. The trees cast shade and filtered green light all along the pavement. The city streets bustled with cars and with people. Walking felt like swimming through the thick summer air, the heat beating down even as the sun sank lower in the sky. He watched the buildings pass, then examined the pavement, and back again.

And there it was - a catholic church. He hesitated on the steps. _Did he really want to do this?_ What kind of an answer was he expecting? The catholic church wasn't exactly known for its liberal social views.

With a deep breath in through his nose, he strode up the stairs and through the open doors.

The church was cool, the muggy air only making it so far inside before dissipating. Arthur walked to the confessional booth, his shoes tapping on the stone floor, and waited, for 5 minutes, then 10…every muscle was tensed, and his bones told him to run away. He wanted to scream, escape back to the safety of his flat. But he had to face what he'd done.

The next person stepped out of the confessional booth and walked away, a blank look on their face. Arthur braced himself, taking robotic steps forward, one at a time. It felt like he had only blinked, and all of a sudden was kneeling in front of the screen. His right hand moved almost of its own accord.

His forehead – "In the name of the Father" – to his sternum "and of the Son" – his right shoulder, and then his left – "and of the Holy Spirit." He paused, then continued. The priest shifted behind the screen. "My last confession was…6 years ago."

The priest nodded. "Tell me your sins," he said gently.

Arthur thought back to when he was waiting in line…was there anyone behind him? Shoot. Well, he had ten minutes. It would be fine.

One more breath. "…I have fallen in love with another man. I have had impure thoughts about him, and desire a romantic relationship with him. I feel such incredible happiness around him as I have never felt before. I want nothing more than to be with him as a man is with a woman," he confessed.

"Is that all?" the priest asked, after Arthur hadn't spoken for a stretch.

"No," he replied. "In the last 6 years, I have abused alcohol many times. I have had gratuitous sex with contraception and with multiple people, even while dating a different one. I have lied, I have denied my faith, I have worked on Sunday and not observed all holydays. I have neglected prayer for a long time, I have envied others, I have not loved my neighbor as myself, and I have used the Lord and his Son's name in vain countless times." He breathed out. "For these and all the sins in my life, I am sorry." By the end, it was barely a mumble. His chest felt light, though his eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

The priest waited, then spoke. "Visit the altar of Our Lady, and give thanks for your pardon. Ask for her help in overcoming your faults."

Arthur was getting ready to conclude the session when the priest continued. His voice was softer, even intimate.

"However…perhaps not everything you confessed are sins. Remember that God wishes for all his children to find peace and happiness within each other…His book and His words, as spoken through the prophets, have many interpretations."

Arthur's mouth hung open, before he nodded to himself. "…I understand. Thank you, Father."

The priest cleared his throat and righted his voice. "Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you peace. I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," Arthur whispered, signing the cross and rising from his knees. The priest did not speak another word as he left.

Arthur had walked down the side aisle to the exit, but stopped to check his watch. _I still have some time left…_

Once upon a time, he'd been dragged to a chapel not unlike this one, and he'd sat in pews not unlike these, and recited prayers without knowing or caring what they meant. He'd sung songs of devotion and love with his family, with his choir, and with himself, sometimes, when he was sure no one would hear. He kind of wanted to sing now. Once upon a time, his father had read them passages from the Bible as a bedtime story, and his mother had sung them hymns as a lullaby. She'd stroke their heads, let them know that no matter what happened, they were her sons, and that she would always love them, just as Christ loves all his children. No matter what, they would always be a holy family.

Once upon a time, his father came home later and later, and gave more and more suspicious excuses. His mother scheduled more and more private sessions with the priest, because just 10 minutes for confessional weren't long enough. Dinners grew more and more silent, not because fewer words were spoken but because they ceased to hold any meaning. The flat they shared moved away from being a house of love to a house of loneliness. And from then…

He let his head fall back onto the backrest of the pew he'd sat in and looked up at the tall, arching ceiling of the church. The stained glass windows painted the floor in vibrant biblical scenes. Jesus hung by his hands, head dropped to his side in acceptance, looming over the chapel from the altar. A building made entirely out of stone, yet a building that still managed to feel warm and safe.

_No matter what, you always have a home in the house of God._

He brought his head back, clasping his hands in his lap and closing his eyes. He prayed.

10 minutes later, he left the chapel, and took a new-member card from the narthex.

He'd texted Francis that he might be a little late, but the bastard never texted back. He breathed a heavy sigh, because he'd hurt him and because he knew now what he'd have to do next.

Arthur hurried up the stairs of his building, sweat running down his back from the intense summer heat. When he got to his flat door, there was no one waiting outside, but he just shrugged it off and opened the door. Maybe he hadn't been so late after all.

The boys were hanging out in the kitchen with Francis, helping with the cooking, but all three of their heads turned when they heard the door open. The boys' faces registered a degree of excitement. Francis just looked tired.

Arthur paused. "Oh…Did I give you a key?"

"Yes," Francis answered curtly, before turning back to the stove. _Shoot. He's madder than I thought._

They had a quiet dinner – macaroni gratinés au fromage – which was just a fancy French way of saying mac and cheese. Francis insisted his recipe was a million times better than anything store-bought, and Mattie even chimed in to agree, but Alfred said he couldn't taste the difference. (Although Arthur couldn't help but wonder – if Francis' recipe was so good, why wasn't he eating it?) Arthur sat at the end of the table, trying to catch Francis' eye, but he never looked at him once, not even to lament about Alfred's taste being ruined by his father. He eventually just kept eating and resigned himself to silence.

The evening went by quickly, and soon it was time for bed. The boys brushed their teeth, dug around for pajamas – it turned out Mattie had an extra pair in Alfred's dresser – and roughhoused until they were just tired enough to actually sleep.

Mattie was already settled in his sleeping bag when Alfred wandered out of the room, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he could on the soft carpet. The hall had a few lights, but they cast really scary shadows. What if ghosts lived in them?

Alfred found his dad quickly, paging through a novel from a stack sitting on the floor outside his bedroom. "Alfred?" Arthur remarked, looking up from the book and watching his son curiously. "Why are you still up? Is something wrong?"

Alfred was quiet for a few seconds before talking. "Are…are you okay, Daddy?"

His eyebrows flew upward, taken aback. "W – of course, Alfred. Why would you be worried about that?"

"Matt – Mattie says you're lone-ly."

"I'm really fine, Alfred. I'm not sure what Mattie means."

Alfred may have been just a child, but he didn't feel like he was being told the whole truth. "…Okay, Daddy," he said, sighing a little and turning to walk back. "Good night."

"…Er, Alfred. Listen." He turned around to look at his father. Arthur sucked in a deep breath. "It's, um – it's complicated. But, basically, I had a lot of things I needed to sort out – um, feelings, and all of that sappy sort of stuff – and I think I've gotten them sorted, mostly. So hopefully, you won't have to worry about me so much anymore. I am your father, after all. The worrying is _my _job."

"…So you're not lonely?"

"No. I have you, and Matthew, and Francis. Why would I be lonely when I have such a wonderful family?"

Alfred smiled, content with that answer. "OK."

"Good night, Alfred."

"Good night, Dad." His son shuffled back to his room, and Arthur relaxed against the wall. Oh boy. He reached to pick up his book, but saw two feet standing on the hallway carpet. It turned out the feet were connected to a human being, namely Francis.

"_Il me faut de parler avec toi._" [I need to talk to you.]

Arthur nodded, then got up. "Right." They sat down in the living room, Francis in an armchair, Arthur on the sofa criss-cross applesauce. Francis sat up straight, crossing his legs and trying to appear proper.

"What would you do if Alfred were gay?"

"Look, I get it, I know what you're talking about. I didn't mean it before."

"What would you do?" he repeated, his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth downturned in an unpleasant scowl.

"Those would be some pretty slim chances, huh?"

"I don't care. What would you do?" he asked again, enunciating each word.

Arthur ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. "I'd be fine with it. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Well someone had a change of heart," Francis drawled, unconvinced.

"I told you already. I didn't mean it before."

"Just like you didn't mean it with your song lyrics?"

"_Francis._"

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not. I'm really not. It's just been difficult."

"While that might be the case, you can't take that out on other people. You're a _father. _You have to be more mature than that."

"I don't need a bloody lecture from you. I know that perfectly well."

"Hmmph. Apparently not."

"What the bloody hell do you want from me? I told you I was sorry!"

Francis opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He started to gesture with his hands, but for once was at a loss for words, and dropped them in frustration. "I – I don't know. I'm not sure what I expected from you. Bye. _Bonsoir._" He got up, flustered, and started walking hurriedly towards the door.

"Francis – god – I mean, don't be such a drama queen!"

He kept walking, out the door. Arthur jumped off the couch and ran after him.

"_Francis_! Please, just listen to me!"

He shook his head as he walked into the stairwell. "You're just going to insult my feelings again."

Arthur shut the apartment door and ran down the steps after him, grabbing his shoulder. "_Arrête! S'il te plait!_"

He shook him off. "Stop it! You felt nothing! I'm not going to let you do that to me again!" Francis'voice was getting thick again.

"What do you mean I felt nothing? Did that feel like nothing to you?" Arthur hissed, keeping his voice quiet.

"You're just another goddamn straight boy! You think you're the first?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, I'm not straight, I'm scared," Arthur spat.

Francis shut up, his face a mess of anger and surprise, and worry.

"I went to church today. Confessional. I was sick of feeling like some sort of – like a disappointment. Or a devil's child, or whatever. I just had to get rid of the guilt, but I think I can accept it now. A little. It's – maybe it's alright." He paused, then spoke softly. "Even if it isn't – if loving you means I'm damned to hell, so be it."

Francis seemed frozen in place. "I – oh." He thought for a moment. "You're religious?" he asked after a while.

Arthur nodded. "I grew up in a super Catholic family. Really," he explained. "They weren't too enthralled by the whole – 'Arthur likes boys too' thing."

"Ah." Francis looked down at his shoes. The floor of the stairwell wasn't super pleasant. It looked really cold. Even though it was summer, and all. He looked back up at Arthur. "So you weren't lying, then."

"No. Not then, not now."

They stood in awkward silence.

Francis spoke softly. "What do we do now?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. Whenever I imagined this situation, there was usually some sort of kissing involved, but I also never imagined it in a cold stairwell." Shit. He mentally slapped himself. What kind of a goddamned pervert -

Francis laughed a little as the sorrow left his voice. "Well, that doesn't sound entirely impossible." He leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. "_À demain, ma cherie_," Francis whispered, before turning and heading down the stairs. Arthur let himself smile, just a little.

"See you tomorrow."

* The thing about _Tostaky _is that it literally is just French screaming with a drum kit and a few electric guitars playing the same line over and over. I dare you to listen to it.

_Le Temps de l'Amour_

chorus:_ C'est le temps de l'amour, _  
_ Le temps des copains et de l'aventure._  
_ Quand le temps va et vient, _  
_ On ne pense a rien malgre ses blessures._  
_ Car le temps de l'amour_  
_ C'est long et c'est court, _  
_ Ca dure toujours, on s'en souvient._

_ On se dit qu' a vingt ans on est le roi du monde, _  
_ Et qu'éternellement il y aura dans nos yeux_  
_ Tout le ciel bleu._

first half of chorus;  
_ Car le temps de l'amour_  
_ Ca vous met au coeur_  
_ Beaucoup de chaleur et de bonheur._

_ Un beau jour c'est l'amour et le coeur bat plus vite, _  
_ Car la vie suit son cours_  
_ Et l'on est tout heureux d'etre amoureux._

chorus

English:

_chorus: _It is the time of love  
The time of friends and of adventure  
When the time comes and goes  
We think of nothing despite our wounds  
For the time of love  
It is long and it is short  
It lasts forever, we remember it.

When you are twenty you think that you're the king of the world,  
And that the entire blue sky will be in your eyes forever

_first half of chorus;_  
For the time of love  
It fills your heart  
Full of warmth and happiness

A beautiful day is love, and the heart beats faster  
For life follows its course  
And you are completely happy to be in love.

_chorus_

* * *

**YOOOOOOO**

**So this chapter, not including the author's note, is 5564 words long. Not enormous, but definitely bigger than most chapters I've written. **

**As for my absence - basically, I had a long school year, and I've been trying to be more productive to boot, so my typical daily routine has been 2 hours of piano practice a day, an hour of language study, homework, and bed. Plus quite a few extracurriculars...and then I also kind of forgot for a while that I was writing a story in the first place. **

**however! Summer is coming up. I won't have my school computer, and I'll be busy with summer school, but I am going to try to keep making progress. I would like to make my updates more frequent as well (duh), so I'm gonna work on that. Next school year I'm gonna have two APs, so we'll see how that works out, but that won't be for a while. In the meantime, I can focus a little more on fanfiction.**

**Aldo, the priest, while he's not going to be a recurring character, does have his own backstory, which is why Arthur got off as easy as he did. Can you guess what it is?**

**Thank you all for sticking with me! This chapter got rewritten quite a few times, but I like how it turned out. Also, reviews act as a proper kick-in-the-pants to actually get me moving when it comes to writing, so...you know what to do ;)**

**See you next chapter!**


End file.
